THE 


of 


TALE  OF  ASHLEY  EIVEK. 


WITH 


OTHER  PIECES. 


IT 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  |IMMS, 

ABTMOR  OF  "TH«  TCMAMIB,"  "fttClAftD  MDRDIi," 
"OUT  KITIMf,"  "  ATALANTIt,"  iTO, 


NEW-YORK : 

.    P.    PUTNAM. 

1849. 


Reproduced  by  DUO  PAGE      process 
in  the  United  States  of  America 


MICRO   PHOTO   INC. 
Cleveland  12,  Ohio 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by  W.  GIUCOIX 
SIMM.,  Esq.,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  of  South-Carolina. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


A  FEW  words,  by  way  of  preface,  will  save  us  the  necessity  of  burdening 
with  notes  the  little  story  which  follow?.  Accabee  is  the  well  known  name  of  a 
lovely,  but  neglected,  farmstead,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Charleston,  on  Ashley 
River.  It  was  in  earlier  periods  applied  to  a  larger  district  in  the  same  neigh 
borhood.  Keawah  is  the  aboriginal  name  of  the  Ashley.  The  tribe  of  Accabee 
were  probably  of  the  same  family  with  the  Yemassees,  the  Edislos,  and  other 
groups,  inhabiting  the  lower  country  of  South-Carolina.  The  Gaelio  Chief 
spoken  of  in  the  text  was  Lord  Cardross,  who  made  ft  settlement  at,  or  near, 
Beaufort,  which,  after  a  brief  existence  of  four  years,  was  destroyed  by  an  in 
cursion  of  the  Indians  and  Spaniards.  It  does  not  appear  that  the  noble  Cari 
himself  accompanied  his  colony,  though  this  fact  is  clearly  to  be  inferred  from 
the  language  of  the  historian.  These  particulars  art  all  that  it  necessary  for  m 
fell  understanding  of  the  story  which  follows. 


114 


CONTENTS. 


THE  CAJBIQUE  or  ACCABEK,     -  •     •«    •    -        .        -        -        -        -        •  ft 

Flight  to  Nature,  -       -       .-       .       -    .    .       -       -'     .       .       .       -  41 

The  Brooklet,  -       -       .-       -       ...       .       '.       .       .       .  43 

To  Time,    •       ...       -       -       .^     -       .       .       -       . ,     .  47 

The  Traveller's  Rest,       -       -       -       .•*.'. 53 

The  Mock-Bird,         -       -       -       - *      -       -  69 

Autumn  Twilight,    -       -        -       -        ....       .        ,  73 

Ballad,         -       -        -        -       .       -       -        -    .    -       -       ...  77 

HEADS  ov  THE  POETS, .  80 

1.  Chaucer,        -       -       -       -       -        -       -       •     .  •       -       -  " 

2.  Shakspeare,              -     ,  - 61 

3.  The  Same,    -       -               -       -       -       -       -       -       -       -  82 

4.  Spenser,  ~  -       .'.'..'.       -       ^       .       .       .       .  83 

5.  Milan,  -       -      '.       -       -       -       •       •       -       -       -       -  84 

6.  Burns,     >       ...        .       .       .        ...       .  «< 

7.  Scott,     -        -       -       -       -        -       -       -       -       -        -       -  85 

8.  Byron,        -       -      .-       ,   t    -       -       -        -       -       -        .  •  " 

9.  AGroup,       ....       .       '.       .       .       .        .       -  86 

Sonnet  to  the  Past,   -       -       -       -       -       -       -       ....  88 

Stanzas,       -       -       -       -       -      *.       .       ....       .       .       -89 

Stanzas,    -       ....       .       ..       -.       -       -       .  91 

Forest  Reverie  by  Starlight,        -       ...       --       ..       .       -94 

Inscription  for  Thermopylae,    -       *       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  104 

Evening  at  Sea, -       -       -       -       -       -  105 

Ballad,      -       -       -       -       .       .       .       r       .       .       .       .       .  106 

The  Miniature,    -       -       -       -       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       -  107 

The  Captive,    -        -       -        .       .       .       .       ,       .        .       .       .  109 

The  Grape-Vine  Swing,      ......       .       .       -       -  110 

Attica, *  .       .       .       -       .       .       .       .  Ill 

Heart  Essential  to  Genius,         •        -        .        .        .        .        .        -        -  113 


THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE, 


L 

IT  was  a  night  of  calm  o'er  Ashley's  waters, 

Crept  the  sweet  billows  to  their  own  soft  tune, 
While  she,  most  bright  of  Keawah's  fair  daughters, 
Whose  voice  might  spell  the  footsteps  of  the  moon, 
As  slow  we  swept  along, 
Pour'd  forth  her  own  sweet  song, 
A  lay  of  rapture  not  forgotten  soon. 

n. 

Hush'd  was  our  breathing,  still'd  the  lifted  oar, 

Our  spirits  spell'd,  our  souls  no  longer  free, 
While  the  boat  drifting  softly  to  the  shore, 
Brought  us  within  the  shades  of  Accabee  j — 
"Ah  1"  sudden  cried  the  maid, 
In  the  dim  light  afraid ; — 
here  the  ghost  still  walks  of  the  old  Yemassee,* 


6  THE  CAS81QUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

III. 

< 

And  sure  the  spot  was  haunted  by  a  power, 
To  fix  the  pulses  in  each  youthful  heart ; 
Nevar  was  moon  more  gracious  in  a  bower, 
Making  delicious  fancy  work  for  art  j 
Weaving,  so  meekly  bright, 
Her  pictures  of  delight, 
That,  though  afraid  to  stay,  we  sorrowed  to  depart 

IV. 

"  If  these  old  groves  are  haunted  " — sudden  then, 

Said  she,  our  sweet  companion — "  it  must  be 
By  one  who  loved,  and  was  beloved  again, 
And  joy'd  all  forms  of  loveliness  to  see  :< — 
Iloro,  in  those  grovos  they  wmit, 
Whoro  lovo  nnd  wornhip,  blont, 
Still  framed  the  proper  God  for  each  idolatry. 

V. 

It  could  not  be  that  lovo  should  here  be  stern, 
Or  beauty  fail  to  sway  with  sov'ran  might ; 
These,  from  so  blessed  scenes,  should  something  learn, 
And  swell  with  tenderness  and  shape  delight: 
These  groves  have  had  their  power, 
And  bliss,  in  bygone  hour, 
Hath  charm'd,  with  sigh  and  song,  the  passage  of  the  night." 


THE  CASSIQUE  OP  ACCABEE. 

/ 

VI. 

It  were  a  bliss  to  think  so ;"  made  reply, 
Our  Hubert — "  yet  the  tale  is  something  old, 
That  checks  us  with  denial ; — and  our  sky, 
And  these  brown  woods  that,  in  its  glittering  fold, 
Look  like  a  fairy  clime, 
Still  unsubdued  by  time, 
Have  evermore  the  tale  of  wrong'd  devotion  told," 

VII. 

l<  Give  us  thy  legend,  Hubert ;"  cried  the  maid ; — 

And,  with  down-dropping  oars,  our  yielding  prow, 
Stole  to  a  still  lagune,  where  ample  shade 
DroopM  from  the  gray  moss  of  an  old  oak's  brow : 
The  groves,  meanwhile,  lay  bright, 
Like  the  broad  stream,  in  light, 
Delicious  soft  as  e'er  the  lunar  looms  arrayed. 

VIIL 

"  Great  was  the  native  chief," — 'twas  thus  began 
The  legend  of  our  comrade — "  who,  in  sway, 
Held  the  sweet  empire  which  to-night  we  scan, 
Stretching,  on  either  hand,  for  miles  away : 
A  stalwart  chief  was  he, 
Cassique  of  Accabee, 
And  lord  o'er  numerous  tribes  who  did  with  pride  obey. 


8  THE  CASSiaUE  OF  AOCABEE. 

IX. 

War  was  his  passion,  Hill  the  white  man  came, 

And  then  his  policy ; — and  well  he  knew, 
How,  over  all,  to  plan  the  desperate  game, 
And  when  to  rise,  and  when  to  sink  from  view ; 
To  plant  his  ambush  well, 
And  how,  with  horrid  yell, 
To  dart,  at  midnight  forth,  in  fury  arm'd  with  flame. 

X. 

His  neighbours  by  the  Ashley,  the  pale  race, 

Were  friends  and  allies  'gainst  all  other  foes ; 
They  dwelt  too  nearly  to  his  royal  place, 
To  make  the  objects  of  their  commerce  blows  ; 
But  no  such  scruple  staid 
His  wild  and  cruel  raid, 
When,  by  Helena's  Bay,  the  Gaelic  hamlet  rose,  i 

XI. 

And  moved  by  Spanish  wile  that  still  misled, 
Our  chieftain,  in  one  dark  November  night, 
With  all  his  warriors,  darted  from  his  bed, 

And  drove  the  Gaelic  chief  from  his,  in  fright : — 
Scalplocks  and  other  spoils, 
Rewarded  well  his  toils, 
And  captives  graced  his  triumph  after  fight. 


THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

XII. 

But,  when  the  strife  was  wildest,  and  the  fire 

Play'd  fiercest  on  the  roof  of  bough  and  leaf, 
A  fair  hair'd  child,  misdeeming  him  her  sire, 
Rush'd  headlong  to  the  arms  of  the  red  chief: — , 
'Twas  not  his  hour  to  spare — 
His  fingers  in  her  hair, 
And  tomahawk,  lifted  high,  declar'd  her  respite  brief.  -    . 

XIII. 

But  in  the  light  of  her  own  blazing  home, 

He  caught  the  entreaty  in  her  soft  blue  eye, 
Which,  weeping  still  the  while,  would  wildly  roam, 
From  him  who  held,  to  those  who  hurried  by ; — 
Strange  was  the  emotion  then, 
That  bade  him  stay  his  men, 
And,  in  his  muscular  arms,  lift  that  young  damsel  high. 

XIV. 

He  bore  her  through  the  forest,  many  a  mile, 

With  a  rude  tenderness  and  matchless  strength ; 
She  slept  upon  his  arm — she  saw  his  smile, 
Seen  seldom,  and  reached  Accabee  at  length; 
Here,  secret  for  a  year, 
He  kept  the  child  with  care, 
And  love,  that  did  from  her  a  seeming  love  beguile. 


10  THE  CA88IQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

XV. 

A  child  of  ancient  Albyn,  she  was  bright, 

With  a  transparent  beauty ;  on  her  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily,  struggling  to  unite, 

Did  the  best  blooms  of  either  flow'r  bespeak ; 
Whilst  floods  of  silken  hair, 
Free  flowing,  did  declare, 
The  gold  of  sunset  realms,  ere  Phoebus  sinks  from  tight. 

XVI. 

Our  chief  had  reach'd  his  thirtieth  summer — she 

Was  but  thirteen ;  yet,  'till  he  saw  this  maid, 
Love  made  no  portion  of  his  reverie  : 
Strife  was  his  passion,  and  the  midnight  raid ; 
The  dusky  maids,  in  vain, 
Had  sought  to  weave  their  chain, 
About  that  fierce  wild  heart  that  still  from  all  went  free. 

XVII. 

But,  free  no  longer,  they  beheld  him  bound 

By  his  fair  captive :  strife  was  now  unsought, 
For  a  long  season  ;  and  his  warriors  found 
Their  chief  no  more  where  fields  were  to  be  fought ; — 
He  better  loved  to  brood 
In  this  sweet  solitude, 
She  still  in  sight,  who  thus,  her  captor's  self  had  caught. 


THE  CASSiatJE  OP  ACCABEE.  11 

j 

XVIII. 

She  little  knew  her  conquest,  for  he  still 

Maintained  her  as  his  child,  with  tenderness ; — 
As  one  who  seeks  no  farther  of  his  will, 
Than  to  protect  and  with  sweet  nurture  bless ;       , 
Such  love  as  sire  might  show, 
Did  that  dark  chief  bestow, 
When,  with  a  gentle  clasp,  he  met  her  child-caress. 

XIX. 

She  grew  to  be  the  blossom  of  his  sight — 

For  her  he  snared  the  fawn, — for  her  he  brought 
Gay  gauds  of  foreign  fabric  ; — her  delight 

Being  still  the  sweetest  recompense  he  sought  ;•— 
And,  when  her  feet  would  rove, 
He  led  her  through  the  grove, 
Show'd  her  its  devious  paths  and  all  its  secrets  taught 

XX. 

She  grew  apace  in  beauty  as  in  years, 

And  he  the  more  devoted : — until  now, 
His  eye  beheld  her  growth  and  had  no  fears, — 
But  soon  a  shadow  rose  above  his  brow  ;— 
That  shadow,  born  of  doubt, 
Which  finds  love's  secret  out, 
And,  o'er  its  sunniest  bower,  still  spans  an  arch  of  tears. 


12  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEET. 

XXL 

This  shadow  had  its  birth  with  our  dark  chiefj 
When,  to  his  home,  one  eve,  returning  later 
He  saw,  with  passion  still  subdued  by  grief, 
A  stranger  with  his  beauty,  in  his  gate ; — 
One  of  the  pale  white  race, 
Whose  presence,  in  that  place, 
Brought  to  his  heart  a  fear  that  troubled  it  like  fate. 

XXII. 

Yet  was  he  but  a  pedlar, — he  who  came, — 

Thus  troubling  waters  which  had  slept  before  ; 
He  brought  his  glittering  waves,  and  did  but  claim 
To  show  them,  and  night's  lodging  to  implore : 
And,  o'er  his  pack,  with  eyes 
Of  eager,  glad  surprize, 
Stoop'd  our  young  maid  when  stept  the  chief  within  his  door. 

XXIII. 

His  stealthy  footsteps  stirr'd  no  single  sound  • 

They  knew  not  of  the  eyes  upon  them  set — 
She,  the  gay  thoughtless  girl,  in  thought  profound. 
Deep  in  such  wealth  as  had  not  tempted  yet  \ 
While  his — the  stranger's— gaze, 
In  a  most  pleasant  maze, 
Scann'd  her  bright  cheeks,  unseen,  from  eyes  of  glittering  jet. 


THE  CA88IQUE  OF  ACJCABEE.  13 

XXIV. 

A  handsome  youth,  of  dark  and  amorous  glance,    , 

Showing  a  grateful  consciousness  of  power, 
Yet,  all  forgetful,  in  his  first  sweet  trance, 
How  best  to  make  it  sway  that  forest  flower ; 
Even  at  that  moment,  stood, 
The  red-man  from  the  wood, 
With  pang  at  heart  as  if  '-twere  cleft  by  foeman's  lance. 

XXV. 

Quickly  he  broke  the  silence  and  came  forth, 

While  the  fair  girl,  upstarting  from  her  dream, 
Hurried  his  search  into  such  stores  of  worth, 
As  did  on  eyes  of  young  Aladdin  gleam  : — 
Clipping  his  neck  with  arms, 
That  spoke  of  dearer  charms, 
The  maid  Othello  loved  might  she  that  moment  seem. 

XXVI. 

And,  with  a  pleased,  but  still  a  sinking  heart, 

He  yielded  to  her  pleading  :  he  had  store, 
Such  treasure  as  the  Indian  might  impart, 
That  had  its  value  on  a  foreign  shore ; 
Spoils  in  the  forest  sought, 
By  tribute  hunter  brought, 
Soft  furs  from  beaver  won  by  snares  of  sylvan  art. 


14 


TOE  CA£SI&UK  OF  ACCABEE. 
XXVJL 


Sadly,  the  indulgent  chief— but  with  a  smile, — 
Gave  up  his  treasure  at  his  ward's  demand ; 
The  precious  gauds  which  did  her  eyes  beguile, 
Soon  clasp'd  her  neck,  or  glitter'd  in  her  hand* 
All  had  she  won — but  still, 
There  was  a  feminine  will, 

That  led  her  glance  astray  beneath  that  stranger's  wile. 

f 
XXVIII. 

Their  eyes  commerced  beside  the  blazing  fire, 

Hers  still  unconscious  of  the  erring  vein ; 
The  chief  beheld,  in  his,  the  keen  desire, 

And  his  heart  swell'd  with  still  increasing  pain ; 
Yet,  though  the  sting  was  deep, 
His  passion,  made  to  sleep, 
Look'd  calm  through  eyes  that  seem'd  a  stranger  still  to  ire. 

XXIX. 

His  board  was  spread  with  hospitable  hand, 

Crisp'd  the  brown  bread  and  smoked  the  venison  steak  ; 
An  ancient  squaw,  still  ready  at  command, 
Pour'd  the  casina  tea,  their  thirst  to  slake  ; 
Then,  as  the  hour  grew  late, 
With  calm  and  lofty  state, 
With  skins,  the  chief,  himself,  the  stranger's  couch  did  make. 


THE  CASSiatJE  OF  ACCABEE.  15 

XXX. 

At  sunrise  they  partook  the  morning  meal, 

And  then  the  white-man  went  upon  his  way ; 
Not  without  feeling — teaching  her  to  feel — 
How  sweet  to  both  had  been  his  still  delay : — 
The  nature,  long  at  rest, 
Rose,  pleading,  at  her  breast, 
For  that  pale  race  from  which,  perforce,  she  went  astray. 

XXXI. 

She  long'd  for  their  communion, — for  the  youth 

Had  waken'd  memories,  not  to  be  subdued, 
Of  that  dear  home,  and  friends  whose  tender  ruth, 
Possess'd  her  still  in  that  sweet  solitude  ; 
And,  saddening  with  the  thought, 
Her  secret  soul  grew  fraught  [to  brood. 

With  hopes,  with  doubts,  with  dreams,  o'er  which  she  loved 

XXXII. 

The  chief  beheld  the  trouble  in  her  eye, 
He  felt  as  well  the  trouble  in  his  heart, 
And,  ere  the  morrow's  sun  was  in  the  sky, 
He  bade  her  make  her  ready  to  depart  ;— 
He  had  a  wider  home, 
Where  love  might  safely  roam, 
Nor  fear  the  stranger's  foot,  nor  tremble  at  his  art. 


16  THE  CA88IQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

XXXIII. 

Cassique  among  the  Edisto's,  he  bore 

His  treasure  to  the  river  of  that  name ; 
He  sought  the  forests  on  its  western  shore, 
Millions  of  acres  he  alone  might  claim ; 
Where  the  great  stream  divides, 
He  crossed  its  double  tides, 
Still  seeking  denser  empires  to  explore. 

XXIV. 

At  length,  he  paused  beside  a  little  lake, 

A  clear  sweet  mirror  for  the  midnight  star ; 
"  Soon,  weary  one,  thy  slumbers  shalt  thou  take  $ 
In  sooth,  to-day,  our  feet  have  wandered  far ; 
Yet  look,  and  thou  shalt  see, 

The  wigwam  smokes  for  theo, —  [are, 

Those  fires  that  gluam  through  woods  show  where  our  people 

XXXV. 

Here  shalt  thou  have  fond  service — here  the  clime 

Is  swoot  and  healthful ; — buskin'd,  with  thy  bow, 
Thou'lt  wander  forth  with  me,  at  morning's  chime, 
And  I  to  snare  or  slay  the  game,  will  show  : 
Broad  are  the  sheltering  woods, 
Bright  are  the  streams,  the  floods, 
And  safe  the  realm  that  hence  thy  youthful  heart  shall  know," 


THE  CAS8IQUE  OF  ACCABEE.  17 

XXXVI. 

Thus  counselling,  he  led  her  o'er  the  plain, 

Down  the  smooth  hill,  beside  the  lakelet  clear; 
They  tread  the  gloomy  forest  paths  again, 
'Till  sudden,  the  whole  landscape  opens  fair ; 
"  Look  !  weary  one,"  he  cries  ; 
"  Our  realm  before  us  lies, 
Far  spread  as  bird  can  fly,  or  speeds  by  day  the  deer." 

XXXVII. 

In  sooth,  to  one  whose  heart  is  all  at  rest, 

With  not  a  human  care  to  call  it  thence, 
It  was  a  scene  that  rapture  might  have  bless'd, 
Lovely  to  sight  and  dear  to  innocence ; 
Great  trees,  a  welcome  shade, 
Of  beach  and  poplar  made, 
Fortress  of  peace  that  love  might  deem  his  best  defence. 

XXXVIII. 

Long  groves  of  pine  and  cedar  led  through  wastes 

Made  lovely  by  wild  flow'rs  of  every  hue ; 
Through  arching  boughs  and  vines  the  river  hastes, 
Still  with  the  song  of  birds  that  wander  too ; 
A  fresh  green  realm,  unbroke 
By  plough,  or  woodman's  stroke, 
Rich  in  savannahs  green,  and  lakes  of  skylike  blue. 


18  THE  CAS8IQUE  OP  ACCABEE. 

XXXIX. 

His  was  the  realm,  and  at  his  bidding  came 

The  tribes  that  peopled  it ;  beneath  his  sway 
They  framed  their  rude  society ; — his  blame, 
Or  praise,  sufficient  guide  to  shape  their  way ; 
Still,  with  the  falling  leaf, 
The  signal  of  our  chief 
Prepared  them  for  the  chase  and  counselled  their  array. 

XL. 

And  thiifl,  for  many  a  moon,  within  that  shade, 
Dwelling  'mong'st  vassals  rude  but  loyal  still, 
Remote,  but  not  in  loneliness,  our  maid, 

Had  all  that  love  could  sigh  for,  but  its  will ; 
Submissive  still  she  found, 
The  gentlo  tribes  around, 
The  squaws  received  her  law,  the  warriors  too  obey'd. 

XLI. 

No  censure  checked  her  walks — no  evil  eyes, 
Darken'd  upon  her  childish  sports  at  eve ; 
If  o'er  the  chieftain's  brow  a  trouble  lies, 

'Tis  sure  no  fault  of  her's  that  makes  him  grieve  ; 
For  her  he  still  hath  smiles, 
And,  in  her  playful  wiles, 
He  finds  a  charm  that  still  must  artlessly  deceive. 


THE  CASSIQUE  OP  ACCABEE.  '  19 

XLI. 

Her  wild  song  cheers  him  at  the  twilight  hour, 

As,  on  the  sward,  beside  her  sylvan  cot, 
He  throws  him  down,  the  image  of  a  power, 
Subdued  by  beauty  to  the  vassal's  lot ; 
With  half  unconscious  gaze, 
His  eye  her  form  surveys, 
And  fancies  fill  his  heart  which  utterance  yet  have  not. 

XLIII. 

She  had  expanded  into  womanhood, 

In  those  brief  years  of  mild  captivity, 
And  now,  as  'neath  his  glance  the  damsel  stood, 
Nothing  more  sweet  had  ever  met  his  eye  ; — 
Fair,  with  her  Saxon  face, 
Her  form,  a  forest  grace 
Had  won  from  woodland  sports  of  rare  agility. 

XLIV. 

Her  rich  blue  eyes,  her  streaming  yellow  hair, 

The  soft  white  skin  that  show'd  the  crimson  tide— 
The*perfect  features— framed  a  beauty  rare, 
That  well  the  charms  of  Indian  race  defied ; — 
Her  motion,  as  of  flight, 
TutorM  by  wild  delight, 
Brought  to  her  form  a  grace  at  once  of  love  and  pride. 


20  i   THE  CASSmUE  OF  ACCABEK. 

XLV. 

And,  as  he  gazed,  rvith  rapture  ill  suppressed, 
Inly,  the  chief  resolved  that  she  should  he, 
The  woman  he  would  take  unto  his  hreast, 
Ere  the  next  moon  should  ride  up  from  the  sea ; 
His  child  no  more, — he  felt 
His  soul  within  him  melt, 
To  hear  her  voice  in  song,  her  thought  in  fancy  free. 

XLVI. 

She  felt  at  last  her  power  upon  his  heart, 
As  sho  beheld  the  language  in  his  eye  ; 
And,  with  this  knowledge,  came  a  natural  art, 
Which  bade  her  glances  unto  his  reply ; 
Made  happy  by  her  look 
His  soul  new  poison  took, 
He  drew  her  to  his  breast,  nor  seem'd  she  to  deny. 

XLVII. 

"  I  shall  go  hence,"  quoth  he,  "  the  Hunter's  Moon, 

These  sticks  shall  tell  thee  of  the  broken  days ; 
When  all  are  gone,  I  shall  return, — and  soon, 
The  beauties  that  I  hold  within  my  gaze, 

Shall  bless,  if  thou  approve, 
.    This  heart,  and  the  fond  love, 
That  knows  thee  as  the  star  the  ocean  stream  that  sways.11 


THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE.  21 

XLVIII. 

And  she  was  silent  while  he  spake — her  head 
Sunk,  not  in  sadness,  and  upon  his  breast; 
Fondly  he  kiss'd  her — other  words  he  said, 
And  still,  in  dear  embrace,  her  form  caress'd  ; 
Then  parting,  sped  afar,     . 
Led  by  the  Hunter's  Star, 
Where  the  Bear  wallows  in  his  summer  nest. 

XLIX. 

She  had  no  sorrow  to  obey  the  will 

That  ruled  a  nation :  true,  he  slew  her  sire, 
But  he  had  been  a  gentle  guardian  still, 
Baffling  each  danger,  soothing  each  desire ; 
The  power  that  he  possess'd 
Was  grateful  to  her  breast, 
And  warm'd  with  pride  the  heart,  that  lack'd  each  holier  fire. 


That  night  there  rose  an  image  in  her  dreams, 
.  Of  the  young  trader  seen  at  Accabee ; 
His  fair  soft  face  upon  her  memory  gleams, 
His  keen,  dark,  searching  eye,  still  wantonly, 
Pursues  her  with  its  blaze ; 
And  she  returns  the  gaze, 

And  thus  her  heart  communes  with  one  she  cannot  see. 
2 


THE  C  ASSKiUE  OP  ACC ABEE. 
'    LI. 

It  was  as  if  the  *hief,  by  the  same  word 

That  told  his  own  fond  purpose,  had  compelPd 
Th3  image  of  the  person  she  preferred, — 
And,  seeing  him  in  dreams,  her  soul  was  spell'd 
With  fancies  that,  in  vain, 
She  strove  to  hush  again — 
She  saw  their  shapes  by  day,  by  night  their  voices  heard. 

LII. 

Saddened  by  this  communion,  she  withdrew 

From  those  who  sought  her ;  in  deep  forests  went, 
By  lonely  streams  and  shades,  from  human  view, 
Nursing  a  vague  and  vexing  discontent ;; — 
For  the  first  time,  a  care, 
Hung  on  her  heart  like  fear. 
The  shadows  from  a  soul  not  wholly  innocent 

Lin. 

There  is  a  fate  beside  us  day  and  night, 

Obedient  to  the  voice  within  our  hearts ; 
Boldly  we  summon,  and  it  stands  in  sight ; 
We  speak  not,  and  in  silence  it  departs  ;— 
'Twas  thus  with  her,  as  still, 
She  roved  with  aimless  will, 
Beside  the  swamps  through  which  the  Edisto  still  darts. 


THE  CA83IQUE  OP  ACCABEE.  33 

LIT. 

*   She  spoke  aloud,  or  did  not  speak,  his  name, 

Whose  image  was  the  sole  one  in  her  breast  j 
But,  suddenly,  from  out  the  woods  he  came, 
And  mutual  glances  mutual  joy  expressed:—- 
"Ah,  sought  so  long  in  vain, 
I  fear'd  that,  ne'er  again, 
Mine  eyes  should  see  the  form  that  kept  my  soul  from  rest 


How  have  I  searched  for  you  in  devious  path, 

Forgetful  of  the  mercenary  trade ; 
And  now,  though  perill'd  by  the  redman's  wrath, 
I  seek  you  in  forbidden  forest  shade ; 
For  never,  since  that  night, 
When  first  I  met  thy  sight, 
Hath  beauty  on  my  heart  such  sweet  impression  made*" 

LVI. 

They  sat  beneath  the  shade  of  silent  trees, 

Close  guarded  by  a  thicket  dense  and  deep  j 
There,  onward,  stole  the  river  at  its  ease, 
And,  through  the  air,  the  birds  made  easy  sweep  ;— 
Those  bow'rs  were  sweetly  dight, 
For  safety  and  delight ; — 
The  stranger  von  the  prize  the  chieftain  fain  would  keep. 


24'  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

LTII. 

He  came,  the  dark-brow'd  chieftain,  from  the  chase. 

Laden  with  precious  spoils  of  forest  pride ; 
His  heart  exulting  as  he  near*d  the  place, 
Where  the  fair  Saxon  waited  as  his  bride : 
But  who  shall  speak  the  grief 
That  shook  that  warrior  chief, 
When  they  declared  her  flight  with  yester-eventide. 

LVIII. 

He  had  no  voice  for  anguish  or  regret ; — 

He  spake  not  of  his  purpose — but  went  forth, 
With  a  keen  spirit,  on  one  progress  set, 
Now  on  the  southern  stream  side,  now  the  north ; 
Following,  with  sleuthhound's  scent, 
The  way  the  lovers  went, 
Tracking  each  footfall  sure,  in  leaf,-  in  grass  and  earth. 

LIX. 

Nor  did  he  track  in  vain !    They  little  knew 
The  unerring  instinct  of  that  hunter  race ; 
A  devious  progress  did  tin  twain  pursue, 
Through  streams  and  woods,  to  baffle  still  the  trace ; 
But  how  should  they  beguile, 
The  master  of  each  wile, 
Each  art  pursued  in  war  or  needful  in  the  chase? 


THE  CA08IQUE  OF  ACCABEE.  35 

LX. 

In  fancy  safe,  and  weary  now  with  flight, 

The  lovers  lay  at  noonday  in  the  shade ; 
Soft  through  the  leaves  and  grateful  to  the  sight, 
The  sun  in  droplets  o'er  the  valley  play'd ; 
But  two  short  leagues,  and  they 
Should  leave  the  perilous  way, 
On  Keawah  secure,  in  home  by  squatter  made. 

LXI. 

Thus  satisfied^  with  seeming  certainty, 

Won  by  the  hour's  sweet  stillness,  did  the  pair, 
Shelter'd  beneath  the  brows  of  an  old  tree, 
Give  freedom  to  the  love  they  joy^d  to  share ; 
His  arm  about  her  press'd, 
She  lay  upon  his  breast, 
Life's  self  forgot  in  bliss  that  left  no  room  for  fear. 

LXIL 

They  little  dream'd  that,  lurking  in  the  wood, 

A  witness  to  the  freedom  of  their  bliss, 
The  fiery  chieftain  they  had  baffled,  stood, 
Fierce,  with  envenom'd  fang  and  fatal  hiss ; 
The  lord  of  death  and  life, 
He  grasp'd  the  deadly  knife, 
And  shook  the  tomahawk  high  but  rarely  known  to  miqa. 


25  THE  CAS81ftUE  OF  A  CCA  BEE. 

Lxni. 

But,  ere  he  sped  the  weapon  to  its  mark, 

IBs  heart  grew  gentle  'neath  a  milder  sway  ; v 
True,  they  had  left  his  dwelling  lone  and  dark, 
But  should  he  make  it  glad  were  he  to  slay? 
Nor,  if  the  man  he  slew, 
Could  he  again  renew 
The  trust  he  gave  the  maid  as  in  his  happier  day. 

LXIV. 

Nor  could  he  strike,  with  stern  and  fatal  Mow, 

Her  whose  fair  beauties  were  too  precious  still ; 
A  noble  purpose  came  to  soothe  his  wo, 

And  crown,  with  best  revenge,  a  generous  will  ; 
Forth  strode  he  from  the  wood, 
And,  ere  they  knew,  he  stood, 
With  weapon  bared,  and  look  still  resolute  to  kill. 

LXV. 

As  one  who  at  the  serpents  rattle  starts, 

Sharp,  sudden  sounded  in  the  covert  nigh, 
They  heard  his  voice,  and  both  their  guilty  hearts 
Sunk,  hopeless,  'nfeath  the  expected  penalty ;    ;•  - 
But,  stifling  his  deep  grief, 
With  few  brief  words,  the  chief, 
Declared,  though  worthy  doath»  the  guilty  should  not  die ! 


THE  CA3SIQUE  OF  ACCABEE.  2 

/ 

LXVL 

O'erjoy'd  at  respite  scarcely  yet  believed, 

The  girl  had  risen  and  rush'd  to  clasp  his  knees, 
But  he  whose  passions  had  been  once  deceived, 
No  homage  now  could  pacify  or  please ; 
Soft,  but  with  gloomy  face, 
He  checks  the  false  embrace, 
And  still,  the  crouching  youth,  with  scornful  eye,  he  sees. 

LXVIL 

He  bade  them  rise  and  follow  where  he  led, 
Himself  conducted  to  the  dwelling  near ; 
Here,  till  the  dawn,  each  found  a  separate  bed, 
With  morning  o'er  the  Keawah  they  steer ; 
Still  guided  he  the  way, 
And,  ere  the  close  of  day, 
Once  more  the  three  to  shades  of  Accabee  repair. 

LXVIII. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "is  your  future  dwelling  place, 

This  be,  my  gift, -your  heritage  of  light; 
The  holy  man,  of  your  own  foreign  race, 

Shall,  with  the  coming  day,  your  hands  unite ; 
And  men  of  law  shall  know 
That  I  these  lands  forego, 
For  her  who  still  hath  been  the  apple  of  my  sight 


28  TIIK  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCADEE. 

LIXX. 

See  that  you  cherish  her  with  proper  faith ; — 

If  that  you  wrong  her,  look  for  wrong  from  me ; 
Once  have  I  spared  you  when  the  doom  was  death ; 
Beware  the  future  wrath  you  may  not  flee ; 
Mine  eye  shall  watch  for  her's, 
And  if  a  breath'but  stirs 
Her  hair  too  rudely, — look  for  storms  on  Accabee. 

LXX. 

He  did  as  he  had  promised  ;  they  were  wed 

By  Christian  rites, — and  legal  deeds  conveyed 
The  heritage ; — without  a  word  then  sped 
The  chief  into  his  forests,  seeking  shade : 
Months  pass'd — a  year  went  by, 
And  none  beheld  his  eye,  [stray'd. 

Where  still  his  thought,  with  love,  through  these  sweet  places 

•  LXXI. 

He  grew  to  be  forgotten  by  the  twain, — 
Or  if  not  wholly  by  the  woman, — she 
Ke'er  spoke  of  him, — ne'er  look'd  for  him  again, 
Though  much  it  might  have  gladden'd  her  to  see ; 
For  *ove  had  lost  its  flow'r, 
And  soon  there  came  an  hour, 
When  pain  usurp'd  the  place  where  joy  was  wont  to  be. 


THE  CASSiatTE  OF  ACCABEE.  2 

LXXIL 

The  first  sweet  flush  of  summer  dalliance  gone, 
The  first  most  precious  bloom  of  passion  o'er, 
Indifference  follow'd  in  the  heart  that  won, 
And  scorn  found  home  where  rapture  rose  no  more ; 
No  kindly  nurture  bless'd, 
Where  love  no  more  was  guest, 
And  soon  the  peace  had  fled  that  charm'd  the  shrine  of  yore. 

LXXIII. 

And  scorn  grew  into  hate,  and  hate  to  wrath, 

And  wrath  found  speech  in  violence  ; — his  arm 
Smote  the  unhappy  woman  in  her  path  ; — 
Submission  could  not  soothe,  nor  tears  disarm, 
The  fury  of  that  breast, 
Which  cruel  hate  possess'd, 
And  which  her  beauty  now  no  more  sufficed  to  charm. 

LXXIV. 

The  profligate  husband,  reckless  of  her  wo, 

Her  meek  submission  and  her  misery, 
Prepared,  in  secret,  still  another  blow, 
And  bargained  for  the  sale  of  Accabee  ; 
Already  had  he  drawn 
The  fatal  deed— had  gone, 
Resolved,  in  other  lands,  no  more  his  wife  to  see. 


80  THE  CASSIftUB  OP  ACCABKE.  ' 

LXXV. 

He  little  knew  that  eyes  were  on  hia  flight, 

That  long  had  marked  his  deeds ; — his  way  led  through 
The  umbrageous  groves  of  Eutaw  : — long  ere  night  t 
His  footsteps  to  the  white-man's  clearings  drew ;— * 
And,  with  the  exulting  thought 
Of  wealth  so  basely  sought, 
He  saw  the  cottage  smokes,  of  him  who  bought,  in  view. 

LXXVL 

But  now  a  voice  arrests  him  as  he  goes —  ' 

Forth  starts  the  red  chief  from  the  covering  wood ; 
At  once  he  knew  him  for  the  worst  of  foes ; 

Guilt  quell'd  his  courage,  terror'froze  his  blood ; 
The  horse  is  stay'd — in  vain, 
He  jerks  the  extended  rein, 
Vainly  applies  the  spur,  and  show'rs  his  flanks  with  blows. 

LXXYII. 

Stern  was  the  summons — in  a  single  word — 

"  Down !" — and  he  yielded  to  the  vigorous  hand ; 
I  gave  thee  all !"  were  then  the  accents  heard — 
"  The  woman  from  my  bosom,  and  my  land  ; — 
"  I  warn'd  thee,  ere  I  went, 
Of  wrath  and  punishment, 
If  hair  upon  her  head,  in  wrath  was  ever  stirr'd. 


THE  CA88IQ.UE  OF  ACCABEE.  . 

Lxxvm.  % 

"I  know  thee,  and  thy  doings  .  .  >  thou  shalt  die!" 

"  Mercy  !"  implored  the  profligate  in  vain ; 
Vainly  he  struggled — vainly  sought  to  fly — 
Even  as  he  strives  the  hatchet  cleaves  his  brain ; 
Quivering,  he  lay  beneath, 
While,  from  his  leathern  sheath, 
The  warrior  drew  the  knife  and  coldly  scalp'd  his  slain. 

LXXIX. 

Another  nighty  and  on  the  Accabee  : — 

Softly  the  moon  was  smiling  on  its  grove ; 
Sadly  the  woman  watch'd  its  light,  for  she 
No  longer  felt  with  hope,  or  glowM  with  love ; 
Grief,  and  a  dark  despair, 
Dwelt  in  the  bosom,  where, 
Expell'd  by  brutal  wrath,  love  soon  was  doomed  to  flee. 

LXXX. 

She  couch'd  beside  her  hearth  in  dreamy  care, 

Silence  ai\d  wo  close  crouching  at  each  hand ; 
Life  without  promise,  fill'd  with  many  a  fear  j— 
With  vacant  eye  she  saw  the  flickering  brand, 
Nor  strove,  the  sinking  blaze 
That  hardly  moved  her  gaze, 
Declining,  with  fresh  fuel  to  repair. 


gL- 

32  THE  CA8SIQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

*  LXXXL 

But  lo  !  another  hand  beside  her  own, 

Bends  to  the  task ; — sudden,  the  resinous  pine 
Flames  up; — she  feels  she  is  no  more  alone ; 
She  sees  a  well-known  eye  upon  her  shine ; 
And  hides  her  face,  and  cries— 
"  The  Chief!"  his  silent  eyes 
Still  saddening  o'er  the  form  too  long  and  dearly  known. 

LXXXII. 

"  The  man  whom  thou  did'st  wed,  will  never  more 

Lay  angry  hand  upon  thee — he  had  sold 
Thy  land,  and  fled  thee  for  another  shore, 
But  that  I  wrapp'd  him  in  the  serpent's  fold ; 
And  took  from  him  the  pow'r 
That  had  usurp'd  thy  dow'r, — 
In  proof  of  what  I  tell  thee,— lo  !  behold !" 

LXXIII. 

Thus  speaking,  he,  beside  her,  on  the  floor, 

Cast  down  the  white-man's  written  instrument ; 
Sign'd,  seal'd  and  witness'd ;  conn'd  with  legal  lore ; 
Conveying,  such  the  document's  intent, 
All  these  fair  groves  and  plains, 
The  Accabee  domains 
TO  one,  of  kindred  race,  whose  name  the  paper  bore. 


THE  CASSlQtJE  OP  ACCABEE. 

LXXXIV. 

And  she  had  sign'd  it  with  unwilling  hand, 
•  Ignorant  of  its  meaning,  but  in  dread  ; 
Obedient  to  her  tyrant's  fierce  command, 
While  his  hand  shook  in  threatening  o'er  her  head  ; 

'Twas  in  that  very  hour, 

His  blow,  with  brutal  power, 
Had  stricken  her  to  the  earth  where  long  she  lay  as  dead. 

LXXXV. 

He  little  dream'd  that  the  avenger  near, 

Beheld  him  and  prepared  his  punishment ; 
You  ask  why  came  he  not  to  interfere, 
And  stay,  ere  yet  was  wrought  the  foul  intent ; 
Enough,  the  red-man  knows 
His  time  to  interpose : — 
Sternly  his  hour  he  takes  with  resolute  will  unbent 

LXXXVI. 

Unerring,  we  have  seen  him  in  pursuit — 

Unsparing,  we  have  seen  him  in  his  blow  ;— 
His  mission  was  not  ended — and,  though  mute, 
He  stood,  surveying  her  who,  cowering  low, 
Crept  humbly  to  his  feet, 
As  seeming  to  entreat, — 
He  had  another  task  which  found  the  warrior  slow. 


84  THE  CABSiaUE  OF  ACCABEE. 

LXXXVIL 

But  he  was  firm :— "This  paper  is  your  own, — 

Another  proof  is  mine,  that  you  will  be 
Safe  from  the  blows  of  him  so  lately  known  ; 
He  hath  his  separate  lands  henceforth  from  me— 
Ample  the  soil  I  gave, 
Beside  the  Eutaw's  wave, — 
In  token  of  my  truth — this  bloody  scalplock  see." 

LXXXVIII. 

Then  shriek'd  the  unhappy  woman  with  affright, 

Revolting  at  the  trophy,  dripping  yet, 
That,  down  upon  the  paper,  in  her  sight, 
With  quiet  hand,  the  haughty  chieftain  set ; 
"  Spare  me !"  she  cried—"  Oh !  spare  !" 
And  crouching,  still  in  fear, 
Backward  she  sped  as  if  she  safety  sought  in  flight.    * 

LXXXIX. 

"  Fear  nothing !"  said  the  Chieftain ;  "  'twas  for  thee, 

I  brought  this  bloody  token  of  my  truth, 
To  show  thee  that,  henceforward,  thou  art  free 
To  the  possession  of  thy  life  and  youth  ; 
Still  nast  thou  beauty—still 
Thy  heritage— thy  will ;  • 
Go,  seek  thy  kindred  pale,  secure  of  love  and  ruth. 


THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE.  35 

XC. 

"  From  him,  who,  in  thy  thoughtlessness  of  heart, 

Thou  mad'st  a  master  over  thee,  I  save ; 
I  slew  thy  father — I  have  done  his  part, 

And  give  thee  wealth  more  ample  than  he  gave ; 
.    Henceforth,  thou  wilt  not  see, 
The  chief  at  Accabee  ; 

Beware  again  lest  passion  make  thee  slave. 

•» 

XCI. 

"  I  leave  thee  now  forever !"    "  No  !"  she  cried : 

"  Oh !  take  me  to  thy  people ; — let  me  dwell 
Lone,  peaceful,  on  the  Edisto's  green  side, 
Which  had  I  left  not  I  had  still  been  well  :— 
Forgive  me  that  the  child, 
With  heart  both  weak  and  wild, 
Err'd  in  not  loving  where  she  might  have  loved  with  pride !" 

XCIL. 

"  I  had  believed  thee  once,  but  now  too  late ! — 

Henceforth,  I  know  thee  only  to  forget." 
"  Thou  can'st  not !" — "  It  may  be  that  thus  my  fate  » 
Hath  spoken, — but  my  resolute  will  is  set, 
In  manhood, — and  I  know, 
Though  all  of  life  be  wo, 
Thus  better— than  with  faithlessness  to  mate.'1 


36  THE  CA8SIQUE  OP  ACCABEE. 

xcm. 

"     She  crouch'd  beneath  his  feet,  incapable 

Of  answer  to  that  speech  ;  and  his  sad  look, 
As  if  his  eyes  acknowledged  still  a  spell, 
One  long,  deep  survey  of  the  woman  took  ;— 
She  still  unseeing  aught, 
Of  that  sad,  searching  thought, 
Which,  speaking  through  his  eye,  her  soul  could  never  brook. 

XCIV. 

Sudden  as  spectre,  waving  wide  his  hand, 

He  parted  from  her  presence : — He  was  gone, 
Into  the  shadows  of  that  forest  land, — 

And,  desolate  now,  the  woman  lay  alone,—- 
Crouching  beside  the  hearth, 
Whilst  thousand  fears  had  birth 
Haunting  her  thought  with  griefs  more  fearful  than  the  known. 

xcv. 

Our  story  here  is  ended.    Of  her  fate 

Nothing  remains  to  us,  but  that  she  sold, 
Of  Accabee,  the  beautiful  estate, 

And  sought  her  shelter  in  the  city's  fold ; 
The  purchaser,  meanwhile, 
Made  the  dark  forest  smile, 
And  crown'd  its  walks  with  works  most  lovely  to  behold. 


THE  CASSIdUE  OP  ACCABEE.  37 

I 

xcvi. 

A  noble  dwelling  rose  amid'st  the  trees, 

Fair  statues  crown'd  the  vistas—pathways  broke 
The  umbrageous  shadows, — and  sweet  melodies, 
Among  the  groves,  at  noon  and  morning  woke; — 
And  great  reserves  of  game, 
In  which  the  wild  grew  tame  ; — 
And  pleasant  lakes,  by  art,  were  scoop'd  for  fisheries. 


xcvk 


Here  pleasure  strove  to  make  her  own  abode ; 

She  left  no  mood  uncherish'd  which  might  cheer ; 
Through  the  grim  forests  she  threw  wide  the  road, 
And  welcom'd  Beauty,  while  expelling  care : 
Wealth  spared  no  toils  to  bless, 
And  still,  with  due  caress, 
Honored  the  daily  groups  that  sought  for  pastime  there. 


kcrhii 


But  still  the  spot  was  haunted  by  a  grief ; — 
Joy  rvrr    »nk  in  sadness  :— guests  depart; 
A  somrO»p»<...  snrrowful,  beyond  belief, 
Impairs  the  charms  of  music  and  of  art : 
'Till  sadly  went  each  grace, 
And,  as  you  see  the  place, 
Gradual  the  ruin  grew,  a  grief  to  eye  and  heart 
3 


\ 


36  THt  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE. 


The  native  genius,  born  in  solitude, 

Was  still  a  thing  of  sorrow  ;  and  his  spell, 
Whatever  be  the  graft  of  foreign  mood, 
Still  made  the  ancient  influence  with  it*dweli 
Still  reigns  its  gloomy  lord, 
With  all  his  sway  restored, 
Lone,  o'er  his  barren  sceptre  doom'd  to  brood." 


Slow'  sped  our  skiff  into  the  open  light, — 

The  billows  bright  before  us, — but  no  more 
Rose  love's  sweet  ditty  on  our  ears  that  night  ;— 
Silent  the  maid  looked  back  upon  the  shore, 
And  thought  of  those  dark  groves, 
And  that  wild  chieftain's  loves, 
As  they  had  been  a  truth  her  heart  had  known  of  yore. 


POEMS 


POEMS. 


. 


FLIGHT  TO  NATURE. 

SICK  of  the  crowd,  the  toil,  the  strife, 
Sweet  nature,  how  I  turn  to  thee, 

Seeking  for  renovated  life, 
By  brawling  brook  and  shady  tree. 

I  knew  thy  rocks  had  spells  of  old, 
To  soothe  the  wanderer's  wo  to  calm, 

And,  in  thy  waters,  clear  and  cold, 
My  fev'rish  brow  would  seek  for  balm. 

I've  bent  beneath  thy  ancient  oak, 
And  sought  for  slumber  in  its  shade, 

And,  as  the  clouds  above  me  broke, 
I  dream'd  to  find  the  boon  I  pray'd  ; 

For  light — a  blessed  light — was  given, 
Wide  streaming  round  me  from  above, 

And  in  the  deep,  deep  vaults  of  heaven, 
There  shone,  methought,  a  look  of  love, 


42  POEMS. 

* 

And,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 
When  every  bird  had  won  its  wing, 

How  sweet  to  think,  amidst  thy  flow'rs, 
That  youth  might  yet  renew  its  spring; — 

That  sacred  season  of  the  heart, 
When  every  pulse  with  hope  was  strong, 

And,  still  untaught  by  selfish  art, 

Truth  fear'd  no  guile,  and  love  no  wrong. 

And  who,  but  nature's  self,  could  yield 
The  blessing  in  the  pray'r  I  made, 

Throned  in  her  realm  of  wood  and  field, 
Of  rocky  realm  and  haunted  shade  ?  • 

Who,  but  that  magic  queen,  whose  sway 
Drives  winter  from  his  path  of  strife, 

Whilst  all  her  thousand  fingers  play, 
With  bud  and  bird,  in  games  of  life ! 

With  these  a  kindred  life  I  ask, — 
Not  wealth  that  mortals  vainly  seek ; 

But,  in  heaven's  sunshine  let  me  bask, 
My  heart  as  glowing  as  my  cheek ; — 

An  idle  heart,  that  would  not  heed 
That  chiding  voice,  when  duty  comes, 

To  drag  the  soul,  all  fresh  and  freed, 
Back  Jo  cold  toils  and  weary  glooms. 


POEMS.  43 

No  lure  she  finds  in  mortal  schemes, 

Which  wiser  fancies  still  reprove,— 
Far  happier  in  her  woodland  dreams, 

With  one  sweet  teacher,  taught  by  love  1 

Thou,  nature,  that  magician  be, 

Restore  each  dream  that  taught  the  boy, 
That  warm'd  his  hope,  that  made  him  free, 

While  wisdom  took  the  shape  of  joy ; 

^ 

And  I  will  bless  thee  with  a  song, 

As  fond  as  hers,  that  idle  bird,  * 

That  sings  above  me  all  day  long, 
As  if  she  knew  I  watch'd  and  heard. 


THE  BROOKLET. 

m 

A  LITTLE  farther  on  there  is  a  brook, 
Where  the  breeze  loiters  ever.    The  great  oaks, 
Have  roof'd  it  with  their  arms  and  affluent  leaves, 
So  that  the  sunbeam  rifles  not  its  fount, 
While  the  shade  cools  it.    You  may  hear  it  now, 
A  low  faint  murmur,  as,  through  pebbly  paths, 
In  soft  and  sinuous  progress,  it  flows  on, 
In  streams  that  make  division  as  they  go, 


44  POEM8. 

Still  parting,  still  uniting,  in  one  song, 
The  sweetest  mortals  know,  of  constancy. 

Thither,  ah,  thither,  if  thy  heart  be  sad ! — 
That  song  will  bring  thee  solace.    Or,  if  hope 
That  may  not  yet  find  name  for  what  it  seeks, 
Inspires  thee  with  a  dream  whose  essence  brings 
Fruition  in  its  keeping, — still,  the  strain 
That's  murmur'd  by  yon  brooklet,  is  the  best, — 
Having  a  voice  for  fancy  at  its  birth, 
That  keeps  it  wakeful  on  its  own  sweet  wings. 
And  thou  wilt  gather,  for,whatever  mood 
That  keeps  thee  fond  or  thoughtful,  a  sweet  tone 
Beguiling  thy  best  sympathies,  and  still, 
Leaving  in  thy  keeping,  as  thou  seek'st  thy  home, 
A  kindlier  sense  of  what  is  in  thy  path. 

Beside  these  banks,  through  the  whole  livelong  day, 

Ere  yet  I  noted  much  the  flight  of  time, 

Arid  knew  him  but  in  ballad  books  and  songs, 

Nor  cared  to  know  him  better, — 1  have  lain, 

Nursing  delicious  reveries  that  made 

All  being  but  a  circle  of  bright  flow'rs, 

With  love  the  centre,  sov'ran  of  that  realm, 

And  I  a  happy  inmate  with  the  rest. 

There,  with  sweet  thoughts,  all  liquid  like  the  stream 

That  still  inspired  their  progress,  clear  and  bright, 


POEMS.  4 

\       » 

I  lay  as  one  who  slept,  through  happy  hours, 

Unvex'd  by  din  of  duty,  unrebuked 

By  chiding  counsellor  to  youthful  cares, 

That  ever  seeks  to  plant  on  boyish  brow, 

The  winter  that  has  silver'd  all  its  own. 

And  thus,  in  long  delight,  with  the  wrapt  soul, 

Making  its  own  elysium  of  the  peace 

That  harbor'd  in  the  solitude,  the  eye, 

Grew  momently  familiar  with  sweet  forms, 

That  offer'd  to  the  genius  of  the  place, 

Making  all  consecrate  to  gentleness. 

How  came  the  thrush  to  whistle  as  he  drank, 

Heeding  not  me,  and  darting  through  the  copse, 

Only  to  bring  his  loved  one  on  his  wing, 

To  gather  like  refreshment ;  squirrels  dropt 

Their  nuts  adown  the  bankside  where  I  lay, 

And  leaping  to  recover  them,  ere  yet, 

They  rolled  into  the  brooklet  and  away, 

Swept  over  me,  and  with  fantastic  play, 

Drew  up  their  feathery  brush  above  their  heads,. 

And  their  gray  orbs,  with  bright  intelligence, 

Cast  round  them,  while  from  hand  to  hand,  they  frisk'd 

The  prize  which  none  might  covet  but  to  feed,. 

Such  nimble  harlequins.    The  glove  at  noon 

Couch'd  in  thick  bristly  covering  of  the  pine, 

Sought  here  its  sweet  siesta,  wooing  sleep, 

By  plaintive  iteration  of  sad  notes, 


46  POEMS. 

That  might  be  still  a  sensible  happiness : — 
And  sometimes,  meek  intruder  on  my  realm, 
Through  yonder  thick  emerging,  half  in  light 
And  half  in  shadow,  stole  the  timid  fawn, 
.That  came  down  to  the  basin's  edge  to  drink, 
Now  lapping,  and  now  turning  to  the  bank, 
Cropping  the  young  blade  of  the  coming  spring, 
And  heedless,  as  I  lay  along  unstirr'd, 
Of  any  stranger — sauntering  through  the  shade, 
Even  where  I  crouch'd, — having  a  quiet  mood,     - 
And  not  disturbing,  while  surveying  mine. 
• 

Thou  smiPst— and  on  thy  lip  the  speaking  thought 
Looks  still  like  censure— deems  my  hours  mis-spent, 
And  saddens  into  warning.     A  shrewd  thought, 
I  will  not  combat  with  an  argument, 
But  leave  the  worldly  policy  to  boast, 
That  such  an  errantry  as  this  life  of  mine, 
Hath  found  its  fit  sarcasm,  well  rebuked. 
And  yet  there  is  a  something  in  the  life 
Thou  mock'st,  as  idle  still  and  profligate, 
Something  to  life  compensative,  and  dear 
To  feelings  that  are  fashion'd  not  by  man. 
Ah !  the  delicious  sadness  of  the  hours, 
Spent'by  this  brooklet— ah  !  the  dreamft  they  brought, 
Of  other  hopes  and  beings — the  sweet  truths, 
That  still  subdued  the  heart  to  patientness, 


POEMS.  47 

And  made  all  flexible  in  the  youthful  will, 

That  else  had  been  most  passionate  and  rash. 

I  know  the  toils  that  gather  on  my  path, 

And  I  will  grapple  them  with  a  strength  that  shows 

A  love  for  the  encounter,  not  the  less 

For  hours  thus  wasted  in  the  solitude, 

And  fancies  born  of  dreams — and  'twill  not  less 

Impair  the  resolute  courage  of  my  heart, 

Wrestling  with  toil,  in  conflicts  of  the  race, 

If  still,  in  pauses  of  the  fight,  I  dream 

Of  this  dear  idlesse, — gazing  on  that  brook 

So  sweet  in  shade,  thus  singing  on  its  way, 

Like  some  dear  child,  all  thoughtless,  as  it  goes 

From  shadow  into  sunlight  and  is  lost. 


TO  TIME. 

GRAY  monarch  of  the  waste  of  years, 
Mine  eyes  have  told  thy  steps  in  tears, 
Yet  yield  I  not  to  feeble  fears, 

In  watching  now  thy  flight : 
The  pangs  that  followed  still  thy  blow, 
Have  lost  their  edge  with  frequent  wo, 
And  stronger  must  the  courage  grow, 

That's  fed  by  constant  fight 


43  POEMS. 

The  neck  long  used  to  weighty  yoke. 
The  tree  once  shivered  by  the  stroke, 
The  heart  by  frequent  torture  broke— 
These  fear  no  later  blight. 

Oh !  mine  has  been  a  mournful  song,— 
My  neck  has  felt  the  burden  long, — 
My  tree  was  shivered, — weak  and  strong, 

Beneath  the  bolt  went  down ! — 
The  Fate  that  thus  took  early  sway, 
Has  spared  of  mine  but  little  prey, 
For  old  and  young  were  torn  away, 

Ere  manhood's  wing  had  flown ; — 
I  saw  the  noble  sire,  who  stood 
Majestic,  as  in  crowded  wood, 
The  pine — and  after  him,  the  brood 

All  perish  in  thy  frown. 

\ 

So  count  my  hopes — so,  tell  my  fears, 
And,  ask  what  now  this  life  endears, 
To  him  who  gave,  with  many  tears, 

Each  blossom  of  his  love  ; 
Whose  store  in  heaven,  so  precious  grown, 
He  counts  each  earthly  moment  flown, 
As  loss  of  something  from  his  own, 

In  treasures  shrined  above. 
Denied  to  seek— to  see, — his  store, 


POEMS. 

Yet  daily  adding  more  and  more, 
Some  precious  plant,  that,  left  before, 

The  spoiler  rends  at  last. 
Not  hard  the  task  to  number  now 
The  few  that  live  to  feel  the  blow ; 
The  perished, — count  them  on  my  brow, 

With  white  hairs  overcast. 

White  hairs — while  yet  each  limb  is  strong, 
To  help  the  right,  and  crush  the  wrong — 
Ere  youth,  in  manhood's  struggling  throng, 

Had  yet  begun  his  way  ; 
Thought  premature,  that  still  denied 
The  boy's  exulting  sports— the  pride, 
That,  with  the  blood's  unconscious  tide, 

Knows  but  to  shout  and  play  ; 
Youth,  that  in  love's  first  gush  was  taught 
To  see  his  best  affection  brought 

To  tears,  and  wo,  and  death, — 
While  yet  the  fire  was  in  his  eye, 
That  told  of  passion's  victory, 
And,  in  his  ear,  the  first  sweet  sigh, 

From  beauty's  laboring  breath. 

And  manhood  now, — and  loneliness,— 
With,  oh !  how  few  to  love  and  bless, 
Save  those  who,  in  their  dear  duresse, 


50  POEM8. 

i 

Look  down  from  heaven's  high  towers ; 
•The  stately  sire,  the  gentle  dame, 
The  maid  who  first  awoke  the  flame, 
That  gave  to  both  a  mutual  claim, 

Soon  forfeited,  as  ours — 
And  all  those  dearest  buds  of  bloom, 
That  simply  sought  on  earth  a  tomb, 
From  birth  to  death,  with  rapid  doom, 

A  bird-flight  wing'd  for  fate  : 
How  thick  the  shafts  ! — how  sure  the  aim ! — 
What  other  passion  would'st  thou  tame, 
Oh  !  Time,  within  this  heart  of  flame, 

Elastic,  not  elate  ? 

Is't  pride?— methinks  His  joy  to  bend ; — 

My  foe — he  can  no  more  offend ; — 

My  friend  is  false  ; — I  love  my  friend ; — 

I  love  my  foeman  too  !-— 
'Tis  man  I  love ; — nor  him  alone, 
The  brute,  the  bird, — its  joy  or  moan, 
Not  heedless,  to  my  heart  hath  gone — 

I  feel  with  all  I  view. 
Would'st  have  me  worthy  ? — make  me  so, 
By  frequent  bruize  and  overthrow ; — 
But  spare  on  other  hearts  the  blow, 
Spare,  from  the  cruel  pang,  the  wo, 

My  innocent— my  bright ! 


POEMS.  51 

On  me  thy  vengeance !    'Tis  my  crime 
That  needs  the  scourge,  and,  in  my  prime, 
'Twere  fruitful  of  improving  time, 
Thy  hands  should  not  be  light. 

I  bend  me  willing  to  the  thrall, 
Whate'er  the  doom,  will  bear  it  all, — 
Drink  of  the  bitter  cup  of  gall, 

Nor  once  complain  of  thee  ; 
Will  poverty  avail  to  chide, 
Or  sickness  bend  the  soul  of  pride, 
Or  social  scorn,  still  evil  eyed  ? — 

Have,  then,  thy  will  of  me ! 
But  spare  the  woman  and  the  child ! — 
Let  me  not  see  their  features  mild, 
Distorted, — hear  their  accents  wild, 

In  agonizing  pain — 

Too  much  of  this  ! — I  thought  me  sure, 
In  frequent  pang  and  loss  before ; — - 
I  still  have  something  to  endure, — 

And  tremble,  and— refrain ! 

On  every  shore  they  watch  thy  wing, — 
To  some  the  winter,  some  the  spring, 
Thou  bringX  or  yet  art  doom'd  to  bring, 

In  rapid-rolling  years : 
How  many  seek  thee,  smiling  now, 


POEM  8. 


Who  soon  shall  look  with  clouded  brow, 
Heart  filled  with  bitter  doubt  and  wo, 

And  eyes  with  gathering  tears  ! — 
But  late,  they  fancied, — life's  parade 
Still  moving  on,— that,  not  a  shade 
Thou  flung'st  on  bower  and  sunny  glade, 

In  which  they  took  delight : — 
Sharp  satirist— methinks  I  see 
Thy  glance  in  sternest  mockery  ; — 
They  little  think,  not  seeing  thee, 

How  fatal  is  thy  flight ; — 
What  feathers  grow  beneath  thy  wing, 
What  darts — how  poisoned — from  what  spring 
Of  darkness,  and  how  keen  the  sting, — 

How  cureless  still  the  blight. 

Enough  !— the  cry  has  had  its  way, 
As  thou  hast  had — 'tis  not  the  lay 
Of  vain  complaint, — no  idle  play 

Of  fancy-dreaming  care : 
A  mocking  bitter  like  thine  own, 
Wells  up  from  fountains,  deep  and  lone, 
Where  sorrow,  by  sepulchral  stone, 

Sits  watching  thy  career. 
Thou'st  mock'd  my  hope  and  dash'd  my  joy, 
With  keen  rebuke  and  cold  alloy — 
The  father,  son— the  man,  the  boy, 


POEMS.  53 


All,  all !  have  felt  the  rod :— • 
Perchance,  not  all  thy  work  in  vain, 
In  softening  soul,  subduing  brain, 
If,  suffering,  I  submit  to  pain, — 

That  minister  of  God. 


THE   TRAVELLER'S   REST. 

FOR  hours  we  wandered  o'er  the  beaten  track, 
A  dreary  stretch  of  sand,  that,  in  the  blaze 
Of  noon  day,  seem'd  to  launch  sharp  arrows  back, 
As  fiery  as  the  sun's.     Our  weary  steeds, 
Faltered,  with  drooping  heads,  along  the  plain, 
Looking  from  side  to  side,  most  wistfully, 
For  shade  and  water.     We  could  feel  for  them, 
Having  like  thirst ;  and,  in  a  desperate  mood, 
Gloomy  with  toil,  and  parching  with  the  heat, 
I  had  thrown  down  my  burden  by  the  way, 
And  slept,  as  man  may  never  sleep  but  bnce, 
Yielding  without  a  sigh, — so  utterly 
Had  the  strong  will,  beneath  the  oppressive  care, 
Failed  of  the  needed  energy  for  life, — 
When,  with  a  smile,  the  traveller  by  my  side, — 
A  veteran  of  the  forest  and  true  friend, 
4 


04  POCKS. 

Whose  memory  I  recal  with  many  a  tear, 
Laid  hid  rough  hand  most  gontly  on  mine  own, 
And  said,  in  accents  still  encouraging : — 

• 

"  Faint  not,— a  little  farther  wo  shall  rest, 
And  find  sufficient  succour  from  repose, 
For  other  travel :  vigour  will  come  back, 
And  sweet  forgetfulness  of  all  annoy, 
With  a  siesta  in  the  noontide  hour, 
Shelter'd  by  ample  oaks.     A  little  while, 
Will  bring  us  to  the  sweetest  spot  in  the  woods, 
Named  aptly,  "Traveller's  Host."     There,  we  shall  drink, 
Of  the  pure  fountain,  and  beneath  the  shade 
Of  trees,  that  murmur  lessons  of  content, 
To  streams  impatient  as  they  glide  from  sight, 
Forgot  thu  long  day's  weariness,  o'or  stoppcs 
Of  burning  sand,  with  thirst  that  looks  in  vain 
For  the  cool  brooklet.     All  these  paths  I  know 
From  frequent.travail,  when  my  pulse,  like  yours, 
Boat  with  an  ardor  soon  discomfited, 
Unbcason'd  by  endurance.     Through  a  course 
Of  toil,  I  now  can  think  upon  with  smiles, 
Which  brought  but  terror  when  I  felt  it  first, 
I  grew  profound  in  knowledge  of  the  route, 
Marking  each  wayside  rock,  each  hill  of  clay, 
Blazed  shaft,  or  blighted  thick,  and  forked  tree, 
With  confidence  familiar  as  you  found 


POEMS.  •  65 

\ 

In  bookish  lore  and  company.    Cheer  up, 
Our  pathway  soon  grows  pleasant     We  shall  reach- 
Note  well  how  truly  were  my  lessons  conn'd,— • 
A  little  swell  of  earth,  which,  on  these  plains, 
Looks  proudly  like  a  hill.     This,  having  pass'd, 
The  land  sinks  suddenly — the  groves  grow  thick, 
And,  in  the  embrace  of  May,  the  giant  wood 
Puts  on  new  glories.    Shade  from  these  will  soothe 
Thy  overwearied  spirit,  and  anon, 
The  broad  blaze  on  the  trunk  of  a  dark  pine 
That  strides  out  on  the  highway  to  our  right, 
"Will  guide  us  where,  in  woodland  hollow,  hides 
A  lonely  fountain,  such  as  those,  of  yore, 
The  ancient  poets  fabled  as  the  home, 
Each  of  its  nymph  ;  a  nymph  of  chastity, 
Whose  duty  yet  was  love.     A  thousand  times, 
When  I  was  near  exhausted  as  yourself, 
That  gash  upon  the  pine-tree  strengthened  me, 
As  showing  where  the  waters  might  be  found, 
Otherwise  voiceless.    Thanks  to  the  rude  man~- 
Rude  in  the  manners  of  his  forest  life, 
But  frank  and  generous, — whose  benevolent  heart— 
Good  kernel  in  rough  outside, — counsels  him, 
As  in  the  ages  of  the  Patriarch, 
To  make  provision  for  the  stranger's  need. 
His  axe,  whose  keen  edge  blazons  on  the  tree, 
Our  pathway  to  the  waters  that  refresh, 


66  *  POEMS. 

Was  in  that  office  consecrate,  and  made 

Holier  than  knife,  in  hands  of  bearded  priest. 

That  smote,  in  elder  days,  the  innocent  lamb,  \ 

In  sacrifice  to  Heaven ! 

•  Now,  as  we  glide, 

The  forest  deepens  round  us.    The  bald  tracts, 
Sterile,  and  glittering  with  the  profitless  sands, 
Depart ;  and  through  the  glimmering  woods  behold 
A  darker  soil,  that  on  its  bosom  bears 
A  nobler  harvest.     Venerable  oaks, 
Whose  rings  are  the  successive  records,  scored 
By  Time,  of  his  dim  centuries — pines  that  lift, 
And  wave  their  coronets  of  green  aloft, 
Highest  to  Heaven  of  all  the  aspiring  wood, — 
And  cedars,  that  with  slower  worship  rise, 
Loss  proudly,  but  with  better  grace,  and  stand 
More  surely  in  their  meekness  ; — how  they  crowd, 
As  if  'twere  at  our  coming,  on  the  path  !— 
Not  more  majestic,  not  more  beautiful, 
The  sacred  shafts  of  Lebanon,  though  sung 
By  Princes,  to  the  music  of  high  harps, 
Midway  from  Heaven ; — for  these,  as  they,  attest 
His  countenance  who,  to  glory  over  all, 
Adds  grace  in  the  highest,  and  above  these  groves 
Hung  brooding,  when,  beneath  the  creative  word, 
They  freshen'd  into  green,  and  towering  grew, 


POEMS. 

Memorials  of  his  presence  as  his. power ! 

— Alas !  the  forward  visjon  !  a  few  years 

Will  see  these  shafts  o'erthrown.    The  profligate  hands 

Of  avarice  and  of  ignorance,  will  despoil 

The  woods  of  their  old  glories  ;  and  the  earth, 

Uncherish'd,  will  grow  barren,  even  as  the  fields, 

Vast  still,  and  beautiful  once,  and  rich  as  these, 

Which,  in  my  own  loved  home,  halt  desolate, 

Attest  the  locust  rule, — the  waste,  the  shame, 

The  barbarous  cultivation — which  still  robs 

The  earth  of  its  warm  garment  and  denies 

Fit  succour  which  might  recompense  the  store, 

Whose  inexhaustible  bounty,  fitly  kept, 

Was  meant  to  fill  the  granaries  of  man, 

Through  all  earth's  countless  ages. 

How  the  sward 

Thickens  in  matted  green.     Each  tufted  cone, 
Gleams  with  its  own  blue  jewel,  dropt  with  white, 
Whose  delicate  hues  and  tints  significant, 
Wake  tenderness  within  the  virgin's  heart, 
In  love's  own  season.     In  each  mystic  cup 
She  reads  sweet  meaning,  which  commends  the  flow'r 
Close  to  her  tremulous  breast.    Nor  seems  it  there, 
Less  lovely  than  upon  its  natural  couch 
Of  emerald  bright, — and  still  its  tints  denote 
Love's  generous  spring-time,  which  like  ardorous  youth, 


58  POEMS. 

Cbuds  never  the  dear  aspect  of  its  green, 
With  sickly  doubts  of  what  the  autumn  brings," 

Boy  as  I  was,  and  speaking  still  through  books— 
Not  speaking  from  myself— I  said — "  Alas ! 
For  this  lore's  spring-time — quite  unlike  the  woods, 
It  never  knows  but  one ;  and,  following  close, 
The  long,  long  years  of  autumn,  with  her  robes 
Of  yellow  mourning,  and  her  faded  wreath 
Of  blighted  flowers,  that,  taken  from  her  heart, 
She  flings  upon  the  grave  heap  where  it  rots !" 

"  Ah  !  fie !"  was  straightway  the  reply  of  him, 
The  old  benevolent  master,  who  had  seen, 
Through  thousand  media  yet  withheld  from  me, 
The  life  I  had  but  dream'd  of—"  this  is  false  !— 
Love  has  its  thousand  spring-times  like  the  flow'rs, 
If  we  are  dutiful  to  our  own  hearts, 
And  nurse  the  truths  of  life  and  not  its  dreams. 
But  not  in  hours  like  this,  with  such  a  show 
Around  us,  of  earth's  treasures,  to  despond, 
To  sink  in  weariness  and  to  brood  on  death. 
Oh  !  be  no  churl,  in  presence  of  the  Q,ueen 
Of  this  most  beautiful  country,  to  withhold 
Thy  joy, — when  all  her  court  caparison'd, 
Comes  to  her  coronation  in  such  suits 
Of  holiday  glitter.    It  were  sure  a  sin 


POEMS. 

In  sight  of  Heaven,  when  now  the  humblest 

By  the  maternal  bounty  is  set  forth, 

As  to  a  bridle,  with  a  jewell'd  pomp. 

Of  flow'rs  in  blue  enamel — lustrous  hues 

Brightning  upon  their  bosoms  like  sweet  tints, 

Caught  from  dissolving  rainbows,  as  the  sun 

Rends  with  his  ruddy  shafts  their  violet  robes — 

When  gay  vines  stretching  o'er  the  streamlet's  breast 

Link  the  opposing  pines  and  arch  the  space, 

Between,  with  a  bright  canopy  of  charms, 

Whose  very  least  attraction  wears  a  spell 

Of  life  and  fragrance !— when  the  pathway  gleams, 

As  spread  for  march  of  Princess  of  the  East, 

With  gems  of  living  lustre — ravishing  hues 

Of  purple,  as  if  blood-dipp'd  in  the  wounds 

Of  Hyacinthus, — him  Apollo  loved, 

And  slew  though  loving : — now,  when  over  all 

The  viewless  nymphs  that  tend  upon  the  streams, 

And  watch  the  upward  growth  of  April  flow'rs, 

Wave  ever,  with  a  han(J  that  knows  not  stint, 

Yet  suffers  no  rebuke  for  profligate  waste, 

Their  aromatic  censers,  'till  we  breathe 

With  diflicult  delight;— not  now  to  gloom' 

With  feeble  cares  and  individual  doubts, 

Of  cloud  to-morrow,    It  were  churlish  here, 

Ungracious  in  the  sovereign  Beauty's  sight, 

Who  rules  this  realm,  the  dove-ey'd  sovran,  Spring  I— 


60  POEMS. 

Tliis  hour  to  sympathy—to  free  release 

From  toil,  and  sorrow,  and  doubt,  and  all  the  fears 

That  hang  about  the  horizon  of  the  heart, 

Making  it  feel  its  sad  mortality, 

Even  when  most  sweet  its  joy, — she  hath  decreed — 

Let  us  obey  her,  though  no  citizens. 

How  grateful  grows  the  shade — rmVd  shade  of  trees, 
And  clouds,  that  drifting  o'er  the  sun's  red  path, 
Curtain  his  awful  brows.    Ascend  yon  hill, 
And  we  behold  the  valley  in  whose  breast 
Flows  the  sweet  brooklet.    Yon  emblazoned  pine 
Marks  the  abrupt  transition  to  the  shade, 
Where,  welling  from  the  bankside,  it  steals  forth, 
A  voice  without  a  form.    Through  grassy  slopes, 
It  wanders  on  unseen,  and  seems  no  more 
Than  their  own  glitter  ;  yet,  behold  it  now, 
Where,  jetting  through  its  green  spout,  it  bounds  forth, 
Capricious,  as  if  doubtful  where  to  flow, — 
A  pale  white  streak — a  glimmering,  as  it  were, 
Cast  by  some  trembling  moonbow  thro'  the  woods ! 

Here  let  us  rest.     A  shade  like  that  of  towers, 
Wrought  by  the  Moor  in  matchless  arabesque, 
Makes  the  fantastic  ceiling, — leaves  and  stems, 
Half-formed  yet  fldwing  tendrils,  that  shoot  out, 
Each  wearing  its  own  jewel, — that  above 


POEMS.  61 

i 

Overhangs  ;  sustained  by  giants  of  the  wood, 

Erect  and  high,  like  warriors  gray  with  years, 

Who  lift  their  massive  shields  of  holiest  green, 

On  fearless  arms,  that  still  defy  the  sun, 

And  foil  his  arrows.     At  our  feet  they  fall, 

Harmless  and  few,  and  of  the  fresh  turf  make, 

A  rich  mosaic.     Tremblingly,  they  creep, 

Half-hidden  only,  to  the  blushing  shoots 

Of  pinks,  that  never  were  abroad  befoie, 

And  shrink  from  such  warm  instance.    Here  are  flow'rs, 

Pied,  blue  and  white,  with  creepers  that  uplift 

Their  green  heads,  and  survey  the  world  around — 

As  modest  merit,  still  ambitionless — 

Only  to  crouch  again ;  yet  each  sustains 

Some  treasure,  which,  were  earth  less  profligate, 

Or  rich,  were  never  in  such  keeping  left. 

And  here  are  daisies^  violets  that  peep  forth 

When  winds  of  March  are  blowing,  and  escape 

Their  censure  in  their  fondness.     Thousands  more, — 

Look  where  they  spread  around  us — at  our  feet — 

Nursed  on  the  mossy  trunks  of  massive  trees, 

Themselves  that  bear  no  flow'rs — and  by  the  stream-*- 

Too  humble  and  too  numerous  to  have  names  ! 

There  is  no  sweeter  spot  along  the  path, 
In  all  these  western  forests, — sweet  for  shade, 
Or  beauty,  or  reflection — sights  and  sounds — 


52  POEMS. 

All  that  can  charm  the  wanderer,  or  o'ercome 
His  cares  of  travel.    Here  we  may  repose, 
Subdued  by  gentlest  murmurs  of  the  noon, 
Nor  feel  its  heat,  nor  note  the  flight  of  hours, 
That  never  linger  here.  ,  How  sweetly  falls 
The  purring  prattle  of  the  stream  above, 
Where,  roused  by  petty  strife  with  vines  and  flow'rs, 
It  wakes  with  childish  anger,  nor  forbears 
Complaint,  even  when,  beguiled  by  dear  embrace, 
It  sinks  to  slumber  in  its  bed  below. 
The  red- bird's  song  now  greets  us  from  yon  grove, 
Where,  starring  all  around  with  countless  flow'rs, 
Thick  as  the  heavenly  host,  the  dogwood  glows, 
Array'd  in  virgin  white.     There,  'mid  the  frowns 
Of  sombrous  oaks,  and  where  the  cedar's  glooms, 
Tell  of  life's  evening  shades,  unchidden  shines 
The  maple's  silver  bough,  that  seems  to  flash 
A  sudden  moonlight ;  while  its  wounded  arms, 
Stream  with  their  own  pure  crimson,  strangely  bound 
With  yellow  wreaths,  flung  o'er  its  summer  hurts, 
By  the  lascivious  jessamine,  that,  in  turn, 
Capricious,  creeps  to  the  embrace  of  all. 

The  eye  unpain'd  with  splendor — with  unrest 
That  mocks  the  free  rapidity  of  wings, 
Just  taught  to  know  their  uses  and  go  forth', 
Seeking  range  but  no  employment — has  no  quest 


POEMS.  63 

That  Beauty  leaves  unsatisfied.    The  lull 
Of  drowsing  sounds,  from  leaf,  and  stream,  and  tree 
Persuades  each  sense,  and  to  forgetfulness 
Beguiles  the  impetuous  thought.     Upon  the  air 
Sweetness  hangs  heavy,  like  the  incense  cloud 
O'er  the  high  altar,  when  cathedral  rites 
Are  holiest,  and  our  breathing  for  a  while 
Grows  half  suspended.     Sullen,  in  the  sky, 
With  legions  thick,  and  banners  broad  unfurl'd, 
The  summer  tempest  broods.     Below  him  wheels, 
Like  some  fierce  trooper  of  the  charging  host, 
One  fearless  vulture.     Earth  beside  us  sleeps, 
Having  no  terror ;  though  an  hour  may  bring 
A  thousand  fiery  bolts  to  break  her  rest. 

How  natural  is  the  face  of  woods  and  vales, 
Trees,  and  the  unfailing  waters,  spite  of  years. 
Time's  changes  and  the  havoc  made  by  storm. 
The  change  is  all  in  man.     Year  after  year,    ; 
I  look  for  the  old  landmarks  on  my  route, 
And  seldom  look  in  vain,     A  darker  moss 
Coats  the  rough  outsido  of  the  old  gray  rock ;— * 
Some  broad  arm  of  the  oak  is  wrench'd  away, 
By  storm  and  thunder— through  the  hill  side  wears 
A  deeper  furrow, — and  the  streams  descend, 
Sometimes,  in  wilder  torrents  than  before— 
But  still  they  serve  as  guides  o'er  ancient  paths, 


64  POEMS. 

For  wearied  wanderers.    Still  do  they  arise 
In  groups  of  grandeur,  an  old  family, 
These  great  magnificent  trees,  that,  as  I  look, 
Fill  me  with  loftiest  thoughts,  such  as  one  feels, 
Beholding  the  broad  wing  of  some  strong  bird, 
Poised  on  its  centre,  motionless  in  air, 
Yet  sworn  its  master  still.     Not  in  our  life, 
Whose  limit,  still  inferior,  mocks  our  pride, 
Reach  they  this  glorious  stature.     At  their  feet, 
Our  young,  grown  aged  like  ourselves,  may  find 
Thoir  final  couches,  oro  ono  vigorous  shaft 
Yiulda  to  tho  utroko  of  time,    liunuuth  mine  eyet, 
All  that  makes  beautiful  this  place  of  peace, 
Wears  the  peculiar  countenance  which  first 
Won  my  delight  and  wonder  as  I  camo, 
Then  scarcely  free  from  boyhood, — wild  as  he 
Tho  savago  Muscoghoe,  who,  in  that  day 
Was  master  of  these  plains.     His  hunting  range 
Grasp'd  at  the  mountains  of  the  Cherokee, 
Tho  Apalachian  rid  go — extended  west 
By  Talladoga's  vallios — by  tho  streams 
,    Of  Tullas-hatchio — through  tho  wilont  woods 
Of  grey  Emuckfau,  and  where,  deep  in  shades, 
Rise  the  clear  brooks  of  Autossee  that  flow 
To  Tallapoosa ; — names  of  infamy 
In  Indian  chronicle  !     'Twas  hero  they  foil, 
Tho  nurnorous  youth  of  Muscogheo, — tho  strong— 


POEMS.  .        65 

Patriarchs  of  many  a  tribe — dark  seers  renown'd, 

As  deeply  read  in  savage  mystery — 

The  Prophet  Monohoee — priest  as  famed, 

Among  his  tribe,  as  any  that  divined 

In  Askelon  or  Ashdod ; — stricken  to  the  earth, 

Body  and  spirit,  in  repeated  strife, 

With  him,  that  iron  soul'd  old  chief,  who  came 

Spurring  from  Tennessee. 

Below  they  stretch'd, 

In  sovran  mastery  o'er  the  wood  and  stream, 
Till  the  last  waves  of  Choctawhatchie  slept, 
Subsiding  in  the  gulf.     Such  was  the  realm, 
They  traversed,  in  that  season  of  my  youth, 
When  first  beside  this  pleasant  stream  I  sank, 
In  noontide  slumber.     What  is  now  their  realm, 
And  where  are  now  their  warriors  ?    Streams  that  once 
Soothed  their  exhaustion,  satisfied  their  thirst — 
Woods  that  gave  shelter — plains  o'er  which  they  sped 
In  mimic  battle — battle  fields  whereon 
Their  bravest  chieftains  perish'd — trees  that  bore 
The  fruits  they  loved  but  rear'd  not; — those  remain 
But  yield  no  answer  for  the  numerous  race, — 
Gone  with  the  summer  breezes — with  the  leaves 
Of  perish'd  autumn;— with  the  cloud  that  frowns 
This  moment  in  the  heavens,  and,  ere  the  night, 
Borne  forward  in  the  grasp  of  chainless  winds, 
Is  speeding  on  to  ocean. 


66  POEMS. 

•• 

Wandering  still— 

That  sterile  and  most  melancholy  life,— 
They  skirt  the  turbid  streams  of  Arkansas, 
And  hunt  the  buffalo  to  the  rocky  steeps 
Of  Saladanha ;  and,  on  lonely  nooks, 
Ridge-barrens,  build  their  little  huts  of  clay 
As  frail  as  their  own  fortunes.     Dreams,  perchance, 
Restore  the  land  they  never  more  shall  see  ; 
Or,  in  meet  recompense,  bestow  them  tracts, 
More  lovely — vast,  unmeasured  tracts,  that  lie 
Boyond  those  peaks,  that,  in  the  northern  heavens, 
Rise  blue  and  perilous  now,     There,  rich  reserves, 
Console  them  iii  the  future  for  the  past ; 
And,  with  a  Christian  trust,  the  Pagan  dreams 
His  powerful  Gods  will  recompense  his  faith, 
By  pleasures,  in  degree  as  exquisite 
As  the  stern  Buffering  ho  hath  well  endured. 
His  forest  fancy,  not  untaught  to  soar, 
Already,  in  his  vision  of  midnight,  sees 
The  fertile  vallies ;  on  his  sight  arise 
Herds  of  the  shadowy  deer ;  and,  from  the  copse, 
Slow  stealing,  he  beholds,  with  eager  gaze, 
The  spirit-hunter  gliding  toward  his  prey, 
In  whose  lithe  form,  and  practised  art,  he  views 
Himself— a  noble  image  of  his  youth 
That  never  more  shall  fail ! 


POEMS.  67 

We  may  not  share 

His  rapture  ;  for  if  thus  the  might  of  change 
Mocks  the  great  nation,  sweeps  them  from  the  soil 
Which  bore,  but  could  not  keep — what  is't  with  us, 
Who  muse  upon,  their  fate?    Darkly,  ere  while, 
Thou  spok'st  of  death  and  change,  and  I  rebuked 
The  mood  that  scorn'd  the  present  good — still  fond     . 
To  brood  above  the  past.     Yet,  in  my  heart, 
Grave  feelings  rise  to  chide  the  undesert,     . 
That  knew  not  well  to  use  the  power  I  held, 
In  craving  that  to  come.    Have  these  short  years, 
Wrought  thus  disastrously  upon  my  strength, 
As  on  the  savage  ?    What  have  I  done  to  build, 
My  better  home  of  refuge ;  where  the  heart, 
By  virtue  taught,  by  conscience  made  secure, 
May  safely  find  an  altar,  'neath  whose  base 
The  tempest  rocks  in  vain.     The  red-man's  fate, 
Belong'd  to  his  performance.    They  who  know, 
How  to  destroy  alone  and  not  to  raise, 
Leaving  a  ruin  for  a  monument, 
Must  perish  as  the  brute.   But  I  was  taught, 
The  nobler  lesson  that,  for  man  alone, 
The  maker  gives  the  example  of  his  power, 
That  he  may  build  on  him.    What  work  of  li£e-~ 
The  moral  monument  of  the  Christian's  toil — 
Stands,  to  maintain  my  memory  after  death, 
Amongst  tha  following  footsteps  ?    Coldly,  the  ear 


68  .  FOEM8. 

Receives  his  question,  who,  with  colder  speech, 
Makes  his  own  answer.     Unperforming  still, 
He  yet  hath  felt  the  mighty  change  that  moves, 
Progressive,  as  the  march  of  mournful  hours, 
Still  hurrying  to  the  tomb.    'Tis  on  his  cheek, 
No  more  the  cheek  of  boyhood — in  his  eye, 
That  laughs  not  with  its  wonted  merriment, 
And  in  his  secret  heart.    'Tis  over  all 
He  sees  and  feels— in  all  that  he  hath  loved, 
And  fain  would  love,  and  must  remember  still ! 
Those  gray  usurpers,  Death  and  Change,  have  been 
Familiar  in  his  household,  and  he  stands, 
Of  all  that  grew  around  his  innocent  hearth, 
Alone — the  last !     And  this  hath  made  him  now 
An  exile, — better  pleased  with  woods  and  streams, 
Wild  ocean,  and  the  rocks  that  vex  his  waves, 
Than,  sitting  in  the  city's  porch,  to  hear 
The  hurry  and  the  thoughtless  hum  of  trade ! 

The  charm  is  broken  and  the  '  Traveller's  Rest !' 
The  sun  no  longer  beats  with  noonday  heat 
Above  the  pathway,  and  the  evening  bird, 
Short  wheeling  through  the  air,  on  whirring  wing, 
Counsels  our  flight  with  his.    Another  draught — 
And  to  these  pleasant  waters — to  the  groves 
That  sheltered — to  the  gentle  breeze  that  soothed, 
Even  as  a  breath  from  heaven  j— to  all  sweet  sights,, 


POEM8. 

Melodious  sounds  and  murmurs,  that  arise 
To  cheer  the  sadden'd  spirit  at  its  need ; 
Be  thanks  and  blessing  ; — gratitude  o'er  all, 
To  God  in  the  Highest !     He  it  is  who  guides 
The  unerring  footstep — prompts  the  wayward  heart 
.  To  kindly  office — shelters  from  the  sun — 
Withholds  the  storm, — and,  with  his  leaves  and  flow'rs, 
Sweet  freshening  streams  and  ministry  of  birds. 
Sustains,  and  succors,  and  invigorates ; — 
To  Him  the  praise  and  homage — Him  o'er  all ! 


THE  MOCK   BIRD. 

WHAT  has  winter  left  for  thee, 
That,  within  the  ancient  tree, 
Thou  dost  linger,  in  thy  gray, 

Sober  vestments,  like  some  friar, 
Haunting  still  the  old  abbaye, 

Wasted  by  the  strife  and  fire  ? 
Wherefore  house  thee  thus  alone, 
When  the  other  tribes  have  gone  ? — 
With  them  to  the  forest  speed, 

Leave  to  human  heart  the  grief, 
That  in  wo  and  dusky  weed, 
5 


TO  POBMi, 

When  winter  twilight's  cold  and  brief; 
Walks  sad  with  hooded  thought,  through  perish'd  wood  and  leaf, 

Sure,  I  know  thee !— thou  art  he, 

That,  with  reckless  minstrelsy, 

Late  that  sung— while  all  the  grove, 
By  the  spring-buds  won  to  joy, 

Bathed  in  fragrance,  breathed  of  love- 
Ditty  of  a  wild  aonoy ; 

Mocking  all  with  scornful  strain, 

Till  the  passion  grew  to  pain, 

And  each  humbler  warbler  fled, 
Silent,  in  his  shame  and  fear, 

Thou,  the  while,  with  wing  outspread, 

Sweetly  voiced  in  spite  of  sneer, 
Throned  on  tho  topmost  bough,  or  darting  wild  through  air. 

Thou  hast  pleasures.    I  have  seen, 
When  the  buxom  spring  was  green, 
How  thy  nest  was  tended — how, 

Thou  didst  gather  straw  and  blade,. 
And,  within  tho  ancient  bough, 

Sit,  the  stem  and  leaf  to  braid. — 
Patient  was  thy  watch,  and  stern 
Lesson  might  the  viper  learn,— 
Crawling  where  thy  young  onus  lie, 

With  his  cruel,  keen  desire, — 


POEM9.  71 

From  thy  eagle-raging  eye, 

Showing  all  thy  soul  on  fire, 
While  talon,  beak  and  wing,  declared  the  warrior's  ire. 

Patient,  as  thy  young  ones  grow, 
Use  of  feeble  wings  to  show, 
How,  to  glide  from  bough  to  bdugh, 

How,  with  gradual  flight,  to  bear, 
Poised  on  spreading  pinion  now, 

Through  the  yielding  heart  of  air ; 
And,  when  free  of  wing,  and  high, 
Winging,  singing,  through  the  sky,— 
Then,  with  thy  triumphant  strain, 

Matchless  in  unmeasured  might, 
As  if  born  of  madden'd  brain, 

Ecstasied  with  deep  delight, 
Whirling  in  voice  aloft,  in  far,  capricious  flight. 

Why  the  cynic  temper  ? — why 
Still  that  strain  of  mockery? 
Art  thou  truer  ?    Dost  thou  sneer. 

9 

As  thou  haply  know'st  that  none 
Of  the  love  songs  spring  must  hear, 

Speaks  fidelity  but  one  ? 
Thou  art  constant — that  I  know— 
To  thy  young  ones, — to  the  foe,— 
To  thy  mate,  and  to  the  tree, 


72  POEMS. 

That  beside  my  window  sill, 
Many  a -year,  has  been  to  thee 

Cottage,  home  and  empire  still, — 
Thou  wast  the  sovereign  there,  and  ever  hadst  thy  will. 

Still  maintain  it — thou  alone, 
Of  the  birds,  when  summer's  gone, 
,    Keep'st  thy  dwelling,  hold'st  thy  place, 

As  if  in  thy  breast  there  grew 
Something,  which,  to  human  race, 

Kept  th<?e  dedicate  and  true. 
Cynical  thy  song,  but  mine 
Might  be  cynical  like  thine, 
Could  I  deem  with  thee,  that  all 

Of  the  vows  in  spring  we  hoar, 
Were  forgotten  by  the  fall ; — 

But  I  shrink  from  doubt  so  drear ; — 
I  yield  my  heart  to  faith,  and  love  when  thou  wouldst  sneer. 


AUTUMN  TWILIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  soft  haze  hanging  on  yon  hill, 
Tinged  with  a  purple  light.    How  beautiful, 
And  yet,  how  cold  !    'Tis  the  first  robe  put  on, 
With  gloomy  foretaste  of  a  gloomier  hour, 


POEMS.  73 

By  the  sad  autumn.    Well  may  she  repine, — 

With  heavy  dread  of  winter  at  her  heart, 

Adverse  to  present  sweetness  as  to  hope, 

Which  never  cheers  her  fortunes.   She  is  doom'd — 

Survivor  of  a  race  that  left  no  heirs, 

And  she,  the  mourner  of  the  beautiful, 

Whose  treasure,  in  the  past  to  which  she  glides, 

Was  but  a  bright  decay,  a  perishing  bloom, 

The  bounty  of  a  love^whose  dearest  gifts, 

Best  show  in  desolation.     The  sweet  green, 

The  summer  flush  of  love— the  golden  bloom 

That  came  with  flow'rs  in  April,  and  brought  sweets, 

Whose  purity  might  teach  a  faith  that  life 

Were  also  in  their  breathing — all  are  gone  ! 

The  green  grows. pallid — the  warm,  virgin  flush, 

That  was  in  summer's  eye,  and  on  her  cheek, 

A  glory  all  too  precious  for  a  dream, — 

Too  precious  far  for  mortal  certainty — 

Fleets  all — as  keen,  the  breezes  from  the  hills, 

Sweep  icily  o'er  the  meadows.     All  the  bright  hues, 

Graced  by  the  flow'rs  and  hemispheric  crowns, 

Of  trees  grown  haughty  in  a  birthday  dress, 

Torn  from  the  harboring  forest,  seek  the  sky, 

Fading  in  sunset ;  clinging  to  the  last, 

With  fond  regretful  yearnings  as  they  fly, 

To  homes  they  made  most  sacred,  and  now  make 

Most  wretched,  in  the  poverty  of  bloom, 


74  POEM8. 

They  leave  in  token  of  the  cherish'd  lost. 

Their  last  embrace,  to  sorrowful  twilight  given, 

Fades  faintly  o'er  the  forest,— a  sad  flush 

That  melts  into  the  distance.    Then  the  winds, 

Slow  rising,  as  from  mansions  of  the  night, 

With  trailing  robes  of  darkness,  and  broad  arms, 

Stretched  out  in  action  suited  to  the  dirge, 

That  speaks  the  mournful  ruin  of  their  homes — 

Wail  heavily  through  the  branches ;  while  the  leaves, 

Saddest  of  mourners,  flung  on  summer's  grave, 

Lament  her  in  the  silence  of  true  grief. 

Ah  !  mock  me  not  that  thus  I  mourn  with  them ; 
The  sad  heart's  wisdom  is  to  weep  enough ! — 
I  hoar  your  lesson,  but  of  what  avail, 
Since,  while  it  teaches  worthlessness  of  grief, 
It  still  acknowledges  the  pregnant  cause 
That,  in  the  very  uselessness  of  tears, 
Compels  our  tears  most  freely.     You  discourse, 
To  feeling,  with  a  counsel  that  prevents 
All  feeling  ;  and,  unless  you  stiile  her, 
You  teach  most  idly.     Never  yet  was  grief 
Fit  moralist, — and  that  philosophy, 
Which  will  not  take  its  colour  from  the  heart 
It  seeks  to  fortify  against  the  cloud, 
Reaches  no  sacred  chord  of  sympathy, 
Responsive  with  sweet  echoes.     All  your  laws 


POEMS.  *          j76 

/' 

Teach  sorrow  when  you  teach  her  hopelessness. 
To  bid  the  sacred  current  cease  to  flow, 
'Tis  needful  first  you  freeze  it ;  and  what  gain, 
To  him  with  dear  affections,  o'er  whose  grave, 
He  still  encourages  dear  memories, 
That  feeling  should  be  made  secure  from  hurt, 
By  gross  and  cold  insensibility  ? 
Foregoing  nature,  what  do  we  acquire, 
But  forfeiture  ?     As  well  persuade  the  flow'r, 
T&  grow  to  stone,  lest,  rifled  by  the  storm, 
Its  premature  bloom  shall  perish,    if  unwise, 
To  yield  to  sorrow  the  sole  sovereignty, 
As  little  wise  to  substitute  for  this, 
The  apathy,  that,  still  rejecting  grief, 
Grows  ignorant  of  all  rapture.    You  declaim— 
With  the  grave  studied  eloquence  of  books, 
Writ  by  cold  monks  in  the  ascetic  cell, — 
That  life  is  full  of  changes. — Be  it  so ! 
These  changes  ever  are  from  joy  to  wo, 
And  wo  to  joy  again.    To  conquer  one 
Is  scarce  to  know  the  other.    In  your  calm, 
'Tis  easy  to  declare  that  things  of  life, 
'By  the  inevitable  laws  of  things, 
Are  also  things  of  death  ;  but  not  the  less, 
Find  we  a  sacred  certainty  of  grief, 
Even  in  this  very  knowledge.    Death,  you  say, 
Still  harvests  forms  that  love,  not  less  than  forms, 


76  POEMS. 

That  simply  live ;  and  folly  'tis  to  mourn, 
That  the  dear  life  whose  presence  was  a  joy. 
And  fragrance,  that  forever  brought  us  joy, 
Is  destined  to  as  sure  an  apathy. 
As  the  poor  flow'rs  we  tread  on. 

Happy  he, 

Perchance — and  yet  I  think  not — who  can  thus 
Prose  calmly  over  nature,  and  the  fate, 
Of  her  dear  offspring  in  whatever  fields. 
But  mine  is  not  this  happiness ; — nor  mine, 
The  thought  that  happiness  may  light  her  fire, 
From  such  dry  chips  of  doctrine.    The  rich  sap, 
May  from  the  wounded  tree  gush  forth  in  tears, 
The  green  rind  feel  its  hurts,  and  something  lose 
Of  verdure  in  the  injury  it  feels. 
But  teach  the  bough,  how  better  were  it  lopt, 
And  flung  into  the  fire,  than  suffering  thus, 
From  the  keen  hurts  of  the  too  wanton  axe ! 
The  wound  will  heal.     You  point  me  to  the  scars  ; 
But  while  it  still  hath  rind  for  newer  hurts, 
And  fresh  sap  still  to  flow  from  other  wounds, 
The  scars  are  but  in  proof  of  strength  to  bear, 
As  well  as  hurts  to  suffer.     Tears,  for  me, 
Bring  sweet  relief  for  what  is  lost  or  borne, 
As  teaching  still  of  sensibilities, 
For  future  feeling,  whether  joy  or  wo, 
Or  gain,  or  loss  ; — and,  in  this  consciousness, 


POEMS.  77 

One  finds  a  better  solace  for  the  past, 
Than  in  that  cold  philosophy  which  stills 
The  too  susceptible  pulse,— that,  to  the  future, 
Looks  evermore  with  hope. 

And  still  you  chide, 

That  grief  should  waste  upon  inferior  things, — 
Leaves  of  the  forest,  flow'rs  of  the  summer  day, 
Fruits  of  a  season's  tribute,  and  frail  fancies 
Born  of  the  dew  and  sunshine,  for  the  hour — 
The  sorrows  that  might  find  excuse,  if  given 
For  loss  of  human  treasure — forms  and  greatness, 
Which  fill  society  with  sense  of  virtue, 
And  still  commend  to  love  that  fierce  ambition, 
That  makes  even  love  a  sacrifice  in  turn ! 

Yet  have  I  something  of  a  plea  beyond, 
In  the  condition  which  has  shut  me  out, 
From  much,  that,  in  the  common  social  life, 
Commends  itself  unto  humanity, 
As  only  worth  its  care.     Mine  was  a  lot 
Peculiar  in  its  loneliness  of  aim, 
If  not  distinction.    Childhood  found  me  first, 
A  sad  bewildered  orphan — one  who  stood 
Alone  among  his  fellows, — and  when  wrongM, 
Knew  not  the  lap  in  which  to  hide  his  head, 
Nor  friendly  ear  in  which  to  pour  complaint. 
I  had  no  parents  tendance.    Never  mine, 


78  POEMS. 

A  sister's  lips  have  hallow'd  while  they  pross'd;— 

£To  brother  called  me  his; — no  natural  ties 

Embraced,  and  trained,  and  cherish'd,  my  wild  youth, 

Which  still  went  erring  into  devious  ways, 

Sorrowing  as  much  as  sinning,  in  a  mood, 

That  craved  love  only  for  its  guide  to  goodness  ;— 

And  this  alone  it  found  not — or  in  vain  !— 

And  thus,  with  strong  affections  still  in  exile, 

Denied  where  they  sought  favor,  I  have  turn'd, 

To  tho  inanimate,  unspeaking  creatures, 

That  grew  about  or  wanton'd  in  my  path—  '•' 

Having  no  scorn  or  hatred  in  their  hearts — 

Having  no  voice  of  censure  on  their  tongues — 

For  that  most  needed  sympathy  of  nature, 

Which  answered  not  the  love  within  my  heart. 

Thus  were  my  footsteps  won  into  the  forest, 

Thus  did  I  seek  these  groves  as  if  in  worship, 

With  regular  tendance,  and  a  meek  observance, 

That  suflbr'd  not  tho  chaunt  of  winds,  the  sighing, 

Thut  Noom'd  moNt  human,  in  tho  pinu'n  grout  branches,— 

The  fall  of  leaf,  the  shadows  of  the  thicket, 

Or  flutter  of  the  gay  bird  o'er  the  pathway, — 

To  'scape  me ; — moralizing  at  each  motion, 

Something,  that  as  it  touch'd  my  heart  with  feeling, 

WttH  Burnly  not  philosophy.     My  rambles, 

Still  brought  me  what  I  sought ; — and  these  pale  flow'rs, 

And  the  green  leaves,  now  yellow,  at  our  feet, 


POEMS. 

Were  something  more  to  me  than  leaves  and  flow'rs. 

They  were  my  kindred.     Now,  that  they  are  gone, 

I  weep  them,  as  a  loss  of  family, 

And  tread  among  them  with  a  cautious  step, 

A  sad  slow  motion,  and  with  trembling  heart, 

As  I  were  reading,  in  some  ancient  church  yard, 

The  names  of  dear  ones  precious  to  my  childhood. 


79 


BALLAD. 

Oh  !  bury  him  quickly,  and  utter  no  word 

Of  the  memory  sadden'd  by  sorrow  so  long  ; 
But  when  the  cold  stranger  shall  say  that  he  err'd, 

Then  tell  the  dark  tale  of  his  crueller  wrong. 
We  may  not  approve,  but  when  others  condemn, 

'Twere  crime  that  defence  of  his  heart  to  forbear,    • 
And  show  that  his  faults  were  all  prompted  by  them, — 

They  could  goad  him  to  danger,  then  fly  from  him  there. 

„ 
You  saw  him  for  many  long  days  ere  he  fell, 

In  chains  and  in  solitude,  sad  but  serene ; 
'Tis  grateful  to  know  that  he  battled  it  v;ell, 

While  his  spirit  grew  strong  in  the  gloom  of  the  scene. 
They  thought  him  all  callous  to  feeling  and  shame,— 


80  POEMS. 

Ah !  little  they  knew  him ; — the  spirit  he  bore 
Once  aimed  at,  and  sighed  for,  as  lofty  a  fame 
As  shines  on  the  pages  of  history's  lore. 

But  pile  the  dank  sod  which  no  stone  shall  adorn, 
No  hand  ever  freshen  with  shrub  or  with  flow'r ; 

We  bury  him  coldly — we  leave  him  forlorn — 

And  midnight  was  never  more  dark  than  this  hour. 

It  is  but  a  year  since  all  proudly  he  stood, 

Brave,  bright,  unassuming — the  sought,  the  preferred — 

Upheld  by  the  strong,  and  beloved  by  the  good — 
— bury  him  quickly  and  utter  no  word  ! 


HEADS   OF   THE  POETS. 

I. CHAUCER. 

Chaucer's  healthy  Muse, 

Did  wisely  one  sweet  instrument  to  choose, 

The  native  reed ;  which,  tutor' d  with  rare  skill, 

Brought  other  Muses*  down  to  aid  its  trill ! 

A  cheerful  song,  that  sometimes  quaintly  mask'd, 

The  fancy,  as  the  affections,  sweetly  task'd  ; 

And  won  from  England's  proud  and/owg-nt  court, 

For  native  England's  tongue,  a  sweet  report — 

*  The  Provencal— the  Italian,  f  The  Norman. 


POEMS.  ,    81 

And  sympathy—till  in  due  time  it  grew 

A  permanent  voice  that  proved  itself  the  true, 

And  rescued  the  brave  language  of  the  land, 

From  that*  which  helped  to  strength  the  invader's  hand ! 

Thus,  with  great  patriot  service,  making  clear 

The  way  to  other  virtues  quite  as  dear 

In  English  liberty— -which  could  grow  alone, 

When  English  speech  grew  pleasant  to  be  known ; 

To  spell  the  ears  of  princes,  and  to  make 

The  peasant  worthy  for  his  poet's  sake. 

—  •  . 

II. — 8HAKSPEARE. 

'Twere  hard  to  say, 

Upon  what  instrument  did  Shakspeare  play — 
Still  harder  what  he  did  not !    He  had  all 
The  orchestra  at  service,  and  could  call 
To  use,  still  other  implements,  unknown, 
Or  only  valued  in  his  hands  alone ! 
The  Lyre,  whose  burning  inspiration  came 
Still  darting  upward,  sudden  as  the  flame ; 
The  murmuring  wind-harp,  whose  melodious  sighs 
Seem  still  from  hopefullest  heart  of  love  to  rise, 
And  gladden  eUen  while  grieving ;  the  wild  strain 
That  night- win»  is  wake  from  reeds  that  breathe  in  pain, 
Though  breathubg  still  in  music ;  and  that  voice, 
i 


•  The  French. 

I 


82  POEMS.   ' 

Which  most  he  did  affect — whose  happy  choice 
Made  sweet  flute-accents  for  humanity 
Out  of  that  living  heart  which  cannot  die— 
The  Catholic,  bora  of  love,  that  still  controls, 
While  man  is  man,  the  tide  in  human  souls. 

III. — THE  SAME. 

His  universal  song 

Who  sung  by  Avon,  and,  with  purpose  strong, 
Compelled  a  voice  from  native  oracles, 
That  still  survive  their  altars  by  their  spells — 
Guarding  with  might  each  avenue  to  fame, 
Where,  trophied  over  all,  glows  Shakspeare's  name  ! 
The  mighty  master-hand  in  his  we  trace — 
If  erring  often,  never  commonplace  ; 
Forever  frank  and  cheerful,  even  when  wo 
Commands  the  tear  to  speak,  the  sigh  to  flow ;  • 
Sweet  without  weakness — without  storming,  strong, 
Jest  not  o'erstrained,  nor  argument  too  Ipng ; 
Still  true  to  reason,  though  intent  on  sport, 
His  wit  ne'er  drives  his  wisdom  out  o*  court ; 
A  brooklet  now,  a  noble  stream  anon, 
Careering  in  the  meadows  and  the  sun ; 
A  mighty  ocean  next,  deep,  far  and  \vide, 
Earth,  life  and  Heaven,  all  imaged  iri  its  tide  I 
Oh  !  when  the  master  bends  him  to  ;his  art, 
How  the  mind  follows,  how  vibrates  the  heart ; 


POEMS.  83 

The  mighty  grief  overcomes  us  as  we  hear, 
And  the  soul  hurries,  hungering,  to  the  ear ; 
The  willing  nature,  yielding  as  he  sings, 
Unfolds  her  secret  and  bestows  her  wings, 
Glad  of  that  best  interpreter,  whose  skill 
Brings  hosts  to  worship  at  her  sacred  hill ! 

iv. — SPENSER. 

It  was  for  Spenser,  by  his  quaint  device, 
To  spiritualize  the  passionate,  and  subdue 
The  wild,  coarse  temper  of  the  British  Muse, 
By  meet  diversion  from  the  absolute  : 
To  lift  the  fancy,  and  where  still  the  song 
Proclaim'd  a  wild  humanity,  to  sway 
Soothingly  soft,  and,  by  fantastic  wiles, 
Persuade  the  passions  to  a  milder  clime  ! 
His  was  the  song  of  chivalry,  and  wi  ought 
For  like  results  upon  society ; 
Artful  in  high  degree,  with  plan  obscure, 
That  mystified  to  lure ;  and,  by  its  spells, 
Making  the  heart  forgetful  of  itself, 
To  follow  out  and  trace  its  labyrinths, 
In  that  forgetfulnesa  made  visible ! 
Such  were  the  uses  of  his  Muse ;  to  say 
How  proper  and  how  exquisite  his  lay — 
How  quaintly  rich  his  masking — with  what  art 
He  fashions  fairy  realms  and  paints  tbeir  Queen. 


84  POEMS. 

• 

How  purely— with  how  delicate  a  skill — 
It  needs  not,  since  his  song  is  with  us  still  I 

v. — MILTON. 
\  . 

The  master  of  a  single  instrument, 
But  that  the  Cathedral  Organ,  Milton  sings 
With  drooping  spheres  about  him  and  his  eye 
Fixed  steadily  upward,  through  its  mortal  cloud, 
Seeing  the  glories  of  Eternity ! 
The  sense  of  the  invisible  and  the  true 
Still  present  to  his  soul ;  and,  in  his  song, 
The  consciousness  of  duration  through  all  time, 
Of  wprk  in  each  condition,  and  of  hopes 
Ineffable,  that  well  sustain  through  life, 
Encouraging  through  danger  and  in  death, 
Cheering,  as  with  a  promise  rich  in  wings  1 
A  godlike  v  ice  that,  through  cathedral  towers, 
Still  rolls,  prolong'd  in  echoes,  whose  deep  tones 
Seem  born  of  thunder,  that,  subdued  to  music , 
Soothe  when  they  startle  most !    A  Prophet  Bard, 
With  utterance  equal  to  his  mission  of  power, 
And  harmonies,  that,  not  unworthy  heaven, 
Might  well  lift  earth  to  equal  worthiness. 

VI. — BURNS. 

Thither  at  eve, 

Where  Bums  still  wanders  with  his  violin  song ; 


•POEMS.  *         85 

I 

•  / 

A  melancholy  conqueror,  in  whose  sway 
His  own  irregular  soul  grew  dark  and  fell, 
Incapable  to  spell,  with  resolute  will, 
The  capricious  genius  that,  o'er  all  beside, 
Held  perfect  mastery.    'Twas  here  he  went, 
A  man  of  pride  and  sorrows,  weak  yet  strong, 
With  still  a  song  discoursing  to  the  heart, 
The  lowly  human  heart,  of  all  its  joys, — 
Buoyant  and  cheerful,  yet  with  sadness  too, 
Such  sadness  as  still  shows  us  love  through  tears. 

VII. —  SCOTT. 

Not  forgotten  or  denied, 
Scott's  trumpet  lay  of  chivalry  and  pride ; 
Homeric  in  its  rush,  and,  in  its  strife, 
With  every  impulse  brimming  o'er  with  life, 
Teeming  with  action,  and  the  call  to  arms ; — 
A  robust  Dame,  his  muse,  with  martial  charms, 
To  strive,  when  need  demands  it,  or  to  love ; — 
The  Eagle  quite  as  often  as  the  Dove. 

,  VIII — BYRON. 

For  Byron's  home  and  fame, 

It  needed  manhood  only  I    Had  he  known 
How  sorrow  should  be  borne,  nor  sunk  in  shame, 
For  that  his  destiny  decreed  to  moan — 
His  muse  had  been  triumphant  .over  Time 
6 


86  POEMS. 

As  still  she  is  o'er  Passion  ;  still  sublime- 
Having  subdued  her  soul's  infirmity 
To  aliment ;  and,  with  herself  overcome, 
Overcome  the  barriers  of  Eternity, 
And  lived  through  all  the  ages;  with  a  sway 
Complete,  and  unembarrased  by  the  doom 
That  makes  of  Nature's  porcelain  common  clay ! 

ix — A  GROUP. 

As  one  who  had  been  brought 

By  Fairy  hands,  and  as  ,a  changeling  left 
In  human  cradle — the  sad  substitute 
For  a  more  smiling  infant — Shelley  sings 
Vague  minstrelsies  that  speak  a  foreign  birth, 
Among  erratic  tribes.     Yet  not  in  vain 
His  moral,  and  the  fancies  in  his  flight 
Not  without  profit  for  another  race  ! 
He  left  his  spirit  with  his  voice — a  voice 
Solely  spiritual — which  will  long  suffice 
To  wing  the  otherwise  earthy  of  the  time, 
And,  with  the  subtler  leaven  of  the  soul, 
Inform  the  impetuous  passions  ! 

With  him  came, 

Antagonist,  yet  still  with  sympathy, 
Wordsworth,  the  Bard  of  the  Contemplative— 
A  voice  of  purest  thought  in  sweetest  musio ! 
— These,  in  themselves  unlike,  together  link'd, 


POEMS.  87 

Appear  in  unison  in  after  days, 
Making  progressive  still  the  mental  births, 
That  pass  successively  through  rings  of  time, 
Each  to  a  several  conquest,  most  unlike 
That  of  its  sire ;  yet  borrowing  of  its  strength, 
Where  needful,  and  endowing  it  with  new, 
To  meet  the  fresh  necessities  which  still 
Haunt  the  free  progress  of  each  conquering  race. 

— Thus,  Tennyson  and  Barrett,  Browning  and  Home, 

Blend  their  opposing  faculties,  and  speak 

For  that  frash  nature,  which,  in  daily  things 

Beholds  the  immortal,  and  from  common  forms 

Extorts  the  Eternal  still !     So  Baily  sings 

In  Festus — so,  upon  a  humbler  rank, 

Testing  the  worth  of  social  policies, 

As  working  through  a  single  human  will, 

The  Muse  of  Taylor  argues — Artevelde, 

Being  the  man  who  marks  a  popular  growth, 

And  notes  the  transit  of  a  thought  through  time, 

Growing  as  still  it  speeds.  .... 

Exquisite 

The  ballads  of  Campbell,  and  the  lays  of  Moore, 
Appealing  to  our  tastes,  our  gentler  moods, 
The  play  of  the  affections,  or  the  thoughts 
That  come  with  national  pride ;  and,  as  we  pause 
in  our  own  march,  delight  the  sentiment ! 


POEMS. 

But  nothing  they  make  forprogress.    They  perfect 
The  language,  and  diversify  its  powers — 
Please  and  beguile,  and,  for  the  forms  of  art, 
Prove  what  they  are,  and  may  be.    But  they  lift 
None  of  our  standards  ;  help  us  not  in  growth ; 
Compel  no  prosecution  of  our  search, 
And  leave  us,  where  they  found  us— with  our  time  ! 


SONNET  TO  THE  PAST. 

Thy  presence  hath  been  grateful — thou  hast  brought 
Toil  and  privation,  which  have  tutor'd  me, 
To  strength  and  fit  endurance ; — set  me  free 
From  vainest  fancies, — and  most  kindly  wrought 
On  the  affections  which  had  else  run  wild, 
Untrained  by  meet  denial  of  their  thirst. 
What  though  I  held  thee  yesterday  accurst, — 
Believe  me  not  the  vain  and  erring  child 
Still  to  remember  chastening  by  its  pain, 
More  than  its  uses ; — True,  that  to  my  home 
Thou  hast  brought  grief,  and  often  left  it  gloom  ;— 
But  that  I  do  not  of  thy  deeds  complain, 
Is  proof  that  they  have  done  no  bootless  part — 
Have  hurt  my  house,  perchance,  but  help'd  my  heart. 


V 


POEMS.  89 


STANZAS. 


AH  !  not  that  song,  nor  any  song, 

Thy  music  mocks  the  heart, 
With  memories  cherish'd  still  too  long, 

That  will  not  now  depart ; 
For  me,  o*3r  whom  a  blighted  past, 
Will  still  its  withering  trophies  cast, 

There  is  no  heaven  in  art  :—- 
The  strain  that  cannot  hope  restore, 
But  makes  me  feel  the  lost  the  more. 

I  ask  not  music's  power  to  show 
What  earth  has  once  possess'd ; 

Nor  does  it  need  that  all  should  know 
My  heart  has  once  been  bless'd : 

The  tear  thy  song  has  made  to  start, 

Betrays  the  secret  of  my  heart, 
The  pang  that  will  not  rest ; 

But  wakes  to  instant  strength  and  sting, 

When  memory  spreads  her  dusky  wing. 

That  night-bird,  with  its  chaunt,  still  nigh, 

A  sad,  mysterious  tone, 
Recalling,  with  its  boding  cry, 

The  ghosts  of  glories  gone ; 


90  POEMS. 

Bends  o'er  me  with  each  human  strain, 
Restores  that  hour,  with  all  its  pain, 

Dark  hour,  I  could  not  shun  ; 
Brings  back  the  full  soul's  trial  then, 
Which  left  me  desolate  'mong'st  men ! 

They  tell  me  that  thy  song  is  sweet, 

And  eyes  that  look  delight, 
Follow,  with  silent  love,  thy  feet, 

And  gladden  in  thy  sight ; — • 
It  needs  not  proof  like  this — thy  strain, 
That  brings  the  perish'd  back  again, 

The  musical,  the  bright, — 
May  well  persuade  me  of  thy  grace, 
In  pure  white  soul,  and  angel  face. 

Enough— thou  hast  her  charm  divine, 

To  kindle  and  to  move  ; 
On  others  let  thy  beauties  shine, 

In  others  waken  love  ; 
Perchance— and  it  is  sure  my  prayer — 
Life's  joys  alone,  and  not  its  care, 

Thy  future  fate  may  prove  ; 
Enough,  resembling  her,  I  see 
Her  virtues,  not  herself,  in  thee. 


POEMS.  •  91 


STANZAS. 

WHEN  life  deserts  this  lowly  sphere, 
.   And  earth  receives  the  form  it  gave, 
Can  wildest  hope  expect  a  tear, 
From  Love  or  Friendship,  on  my  grave  ? 

The  pangs  of  life,  the  dread  of  death, 
It  might  repel,  and  sure  would  soothe, 

To  feel  that,  with  the  parting  breath, 
All  is  not  lost  to  love  and  truth. — 

And,  with  conviction  sure  to  know, 
That  she  who  sits  in  silence  nigh, 

With  tears  too  deep  for  overflow, 

Will  cherish  long  the  grateful  sigh  ;-— 

Will  long,  with  yearning  soul,  go  back,       r 
In  fruitless  quest,  through  vanish'd  hours, 

Wherever  love  has  left  its  track, 
Or  duty  wove  its  way  in  flowers :— • 

Still  fond  to  trace  the  memories  dear, 

Of  joys  so  precious  to  the  soul, 
That  love  forgets  each  living  care, 

In  that  which  can  no  more  control 


92  POEMS. 

And  with  what  soothing,  through  the  range 
Of  future  hours,  their  grief  and  glee, 

To  feel,  that  he,  whom  nought  could  change, 
Still  lives  in  changeless  memory. 

Still  lives  for  friendship — for  the  heart, 
That,  with  his  own,  in  emulous  strife, 

By  glory  lured,  in  love  with  art, 
Began  the  ambitious  race  of  life. 

To  dream  that  one,  with  joyless  eye, 

Will  seek  him  still  thro'  realms  of  gloom, 

To  baffled  hopes  accord  the  sigh, 
And  crown  with  precious  tears  the  tomb ; — 

And  from  the  herd's  pursuing  hate, 
Will  still,  with  generous  warmth,  defend, 

Declare  the  ambition  mock'd  of  fate, 
How  bold  its  aim,  how  pure  its  end  ! 

Ah  !  these  are  hopes  that  well  may  still 
The  vulture  in  the  hour  of  pain  j 

The  dying  heart  with  solace  fill, 
And  soothe  the  fears  they  may  not  chain. 

Were  these  but  mine  ! — but  ah  !  the  doubt, 
Even  now  is  struggling  at  my  breast ; 


POEMS.  *  93 

I  feel  the  deep  desire,  without 
The  assurance  which  should  make  it  blest!— 

Alas  !  if,  at  the  parting  hour, 

The  eye  that  sees  my  sad  decline, 
Shall  watch,  unmov'd,  life's  fleeting  power, 

And  coldly  meet  the  glance  of  mine. 

Shall  turn  with  heedless  haste  away, 

When  o'er  me  sinks  the  heavy  pall, 
Nor  shudder,  when  the  oppressive  clay 

Is  heard  upon  my  lid(to  fall : — 

Shall  seek  the  crowd,  the  festal  board, 

The  revel  and  the  rout,  to  hush 
Those  memories  Love  should  fondly  hoard, 

With  hopes  that  to  the  future  rush, — 
. 
To  ask  of  stars,  and  winds,  and  skies, 

Of  thoughts  by  day,  of  dreams  by  night, 
If  faith  may  yet  secure  the  prize, 

Still  precious  in  affection's  sight ; 

If  ties  SQ  dear  to  earth,  may  be 
Acknowledged  in  that  happier  clime ; 

And  there,  if  eyes  of  love  may  see, 
Once  more,  the  things  so  dear  to  time  ! 


94  POEMS. 

Ah  !  take  from  me  the  fear,  that  all 
,?      The  friends  so  dear,  so  cherish'd  long, 
Shall  from  their  deep  allegiance  fall, 
A  precious,  but  a  faithless,  throng, 

Let  me  not  doubt  that  in  the  hearts, 
To  mine  most  dear,  I  still  may  see, 

Ere  yet  the  pulse  from  life  departs, 
Love's  better  life — fidelity ! 


FOREST  REVERIE  BY  STARLIGHT. 

THE  night  has  settled  down,    A  dewy  hush 

Hangs  o'er  the  forest,  save  when  fitful  gusts 

Vex  the  tall  pines  with  murmurs.     Spring  is  here, 

With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 

And  voice  of  many  minstrels.    Balmy  airs 

Creep  gently  to  my  bosom,  and  beguile 

Each  feeling  into  freshness.    I  will  forth, 

And  gaze  upon  the  stars — the  uncounted  stars  — 

Holding  high  watch  in  Heaven— still  high,  still  bright, 

Though  the  storm  gathers  round  the  sacred  hill, 

And  shakes  the  cottage  roof-tree.    There  they  shine, 

In  well-remember'd  youth.    They  bear  me  back, 

With  strange  persuasiveness,  to  the  old  time 


POEMS. 

And  happy  hours  of  boyhood.     There's  no  change 
In  all  their  virgin  glory.     Clouds  that  roll, 
And  congregate  in  the  azure  deeps  of  heaven, 
In  wild  debate  and  darkness,  pass  away, 
Leaving  them  bright  in  tho  same  beauty  still, 
Defying,  in  the  progress  of  the  years, 
All  change;  and  rising  ever  from  the  night, 
In  soft  and  dewy  splendoj:  as  at  first, 
When,  golden  foot-prints  of  the  Eternal  steps, 
They  paved  the  walks  of  heaven,  and  grew  to  eyes 
Beckoning  the  feet  of  man.     Ah !  would  his  eyes 
Behold  them,  with  meet  yearning  to  pursue 
The  holy  heights  they  counsel !     Would  his  soul 
Claim  kindred  with  the  happy  forms  that  now, 
Walk  by  their  blessed  guidance — walk  in  heaven, 
In  paths  of  the  Good  Shepherd  !     Then  were  earth 
Deserving  of  their  beauty.     Then  were  man, 
Already  following,  step  by  step,  their  points,. 
To  the  One  Presence :  at  each  onward  step 
Leaving  new  lights  that  cheer  his  brother  on, 
In  a  like  progress.    Happily  they  shine, 
As  in  his  hours  of  music  and  of  youth, 
When  every  breath  of  the  fresh-coming  breeze, 
And  every  darting  vision  of  the  cloud, 
Gleam  of  the  day  and  glimmer  of  the  night, 
Brought  to  the  craving  spirit  harmony, 
And  blessed  each  fond  assurance  of  the  hope 


95 


96  POEMS. 

• 

With  sweetest  confirmation.    Still  they  shine, 
And  dear  the  story  of  their  early  prime — 
And  his — the  conscious  worshipper  may  read 
In  their  enduring  presence.    Happiest  tales 
Of  innocence  and  joy,  events  and  hours, 
That  never  more  return.    These  they  record, 
Renew,  and  hallow,. with  their  own  pure  rays, 
When  blight  of  age  is  on  the  frame — when  grief 
Weighs  the  vex'd  heart  to  earth — when  all  beside, 
The  father,  and  the  mother,  and  the  friend, 
Speaking  in  decaying  syllables — dread  proof 
Of  worse  decay  ! — and  that  sad  chronicler, 
Feeble  and  failing  in  excess  of  years, 
Old  Memory,  tottering  from  his  mossy  cell, 
Stops  with  the  imperfect  legend  on  his  lips, 
And  drowses  into  sleep.     No  change  like  this 
Falls  on  their  golden-eyed  veracity — 
Tukes  from  the 'silvery  truths  that  line  their  lips, 
Or  stales  their  lovely  aspects.     Well  they  know 
The  years  they  never  feel ;  see,  without  dread, 
The  storm  that  rises  and  the  bolt  that  falls — 
The  age  that  chills,  the  apathy  that  chokes, 
The  death  that  withers  all  that  blooms  below — 
Yet  smile  they  on  as  ever,  sweetly  bright, 
Serene,  in  their  security  from  all 
The  change  that  troubles  man ! 


POEMS.  "  97 

Yet,  hill  and  tree 

Change  with  the  season — with  the  alter'd  heart, 
And  weak  and  withering  muscle.     Ancient  groves 
That  sheltered  me  in  childhood,  have  given  place 
To  gaudy  gardens ;  and  the  solemn  oaks, 
That  heard  the  first  prayers  of  my  youthful  heart 
For  greatness,  and  a  life  beyond  their  own — 
Lo !  in  their  stead,  a  maiden's  slender  hand 
Tutors  green  vines,  and  purple  buds,  and  flow'rs, 
As  frail  as  her  own  fancies.     At  each  step, 
I  miss  some  old  companion  of  my  walks, 
Memorial  of  the  happy  hours  of  youth, 
Whose  presence  had  brought  back  a  thousand  joys, 
.And  images,  that  took  the  shape  of  joys- — 
The  loveliest  masquers,  and  all  innocent — 
That  vanish'd  with  the  rest.    I  would  recal, 
But  vainly,  each  lost  presence  ;  and  the  sigh 
That  mourns  the  dear  memorials  now  no  more, 
Counsels  desires  that  to  the  mortal  eye  . 

Commend  no  mortal  images.     The  thought 
Grasps  vainly,  right  and  left,  whereon  to  hold, 
And  droops,  as  one  grown  hopeless  of  support, 
That  once,  with  native  strength  for  every  strife, 
Scorn'd  succour  from  without    The  earth  denies 
Her  bosom  for  repose — the  shade  is  gone, 
That  offered  grateful  shelter  to  the  eye; 
And  the  dear  aspects,  which  had  each  its  birth, 


POEMS. 

Twinn'd  with  some  proud  affection, — they  depart, 
In  mournful  robes  of  shadow,  that  disguise 
Each  lineament  of  love. 

Ah !  not  with  these, 

The  perishing  things  that  suffer  from  decay, 
Seek  we  the  sweet  memorials  of  our  youth — 
The  youth  that  seenVd  immortal — youth  that  bloom'd 
With  hues  and  hopes  of  heaven, — firing  its  heart 
With  aspirations  for  eternal  life, 
Perpetual  triumphs,  and  the  ambitious  thirst 
Still  for  new  fields  and  empires  of  domain  ! 
In  tokens  of  the  soul — that  craving  thirst 
That  earth  supplies  not — in  the  undying  things, 
That  man  can  never  change — that  mock  his  fate, 
With  never  changing  sweet  serenity, 
Assured  of  a  security  that  builds 
Upon  the  stedfast  rock,  gainst  which  the  storm, 
Bouts  through  successive  ages,  but  to  prove 
How  fast  its  bulwarks — how  eternally, 
Sunk  in  the  innate  principle  of  things, 
It  draws,  as  to  the  inevitable  heart 
Its  growth  from  all  the  rest ! — to  these  we  turn, 
For  the  memorials  precious  to  our  youth  : — 
That  season  when  tho  Fancy  is  a  CSod — 
Hope  a  conviction — Love  an  instinct — Truth, 
The  generous  friend  that  ever  by  our  side, 


POEMS.  *    *  99 

Hath  still  the  sweetest  story  for  the  ear, 
And  wins  us  on  our  way  ! 

Ah !  stars, — though  taught, 
That  ye  too,  in  the  inevitable  doom, 
Must  perish  like  the  rest — grow  dim  and  fade, 
Having  no  eyes  of  beauty  for  the  eyes, 
That  look  to  ye  in  beauty — yet  your  light, 
Brings  back  my  boyhood's  seasons.     In  my  heart, 
Stand  up  the  old  divinities  anew. 
I  hear  their  well-known  voices,  see  their  eyes 
Shining  once  more  in  mine,  and  straight  forget 
That  I  have  wept  their  loss  in  many  tears, 
Mix'd  with  reproaches— bitter,  sad  regrets, 
Self-chidings,  and  the  memory  of  wrongs, 
Endured,  inflicted,  siuTer'd,  and  avenged  ! 

As  I  behold  ye  now,  ye  bring  me  back 
The  treasures  of  my  boyhood.     AH  returns 
That  I  had  long  forgotten.     Scarce  a  scene 
Of  childish  prank  or  merriment,  but  comes 
With  all  the  freshness  of  the  infant  time, 
Back  to  my  recollection.    The  old  school, 
The  noisy  rabble,  the  tumultuous  cries — 
The  green,  remembered  in  the  wintry  day, 
For  the  encounter  of  the  flying  ball— 
The  marble  play,  the  hoop,  the  top,  the  kite, 


100  POEMS. 

And,  when  the  ambition  prompted  higher  games, 
The  battle-array  and  conflict — friends  and  foes 
Mixed  in  the  wild  melde,  with  shouts  of  might 
Triumphant  o'er  tho  clamors  of  retreat  I 

These,  in  their  regular  seasons,  with  their  deeds, 
Their  incidents  of  happiness  or  pain, 
In  the  revival  of  old  memories, 
Your  lovoly  lights  restore :  nor  these  alone  ! 
The  chroniclers  of  riper  years  ye  grow, 
And  loftier  thoughts  and  fancies ;  when  my  heart 
First  took  ye  for  sweet  counsellors,  and  loved 
To  wander  in  your  evening  lights,  and  dream 
Of  other  eyes  that  watched  yo  from  afar, 
At  the  same  hour-— and  other  hearts  that  gushed 
In  a  sweet  yearning  sympathy  with  mine ! 
And,  as  the  years  flew  by — as  I  became 
Warier,  yot  more  devoted — fix'd  and  strong — 
Growing  in  tho  ailections  and  tho  thoughts 
.  When  growth  had  ceased  in  staturo — then,  when  life, 
Wing'd  with  impetuous  passions,  darted  by, 
And  voices  grew  into  a  spell,  that  hung, 
Through  the  dim  hours  of  night,  about  the  heart, 
Making  it  tremblo  strangely ; — when  dark  eyes 
Were  planets,  having  power  upon  our  souls, 
As  fated,  dimly,  at  nativity; — 
And  older  men  were  monitors  too  dull 


POEMS.  ^  101 

For  passionate  youth, —and  all  our  oracles 

Were  still  mysterious  counsellors  to  love, 

And  faith,  and  confident  trust  for  all  who  brought 

The  meet  credential  of  a  faith  like  ours, 

Gushing  with  sweetest  overflow,  and  fond, 

Of  its  own  tears  and  weaknesses — Ah  !  then, 

How  precious  was  your  language  !     What  dear  strains 

Of  promise  ye  pour'd  forth, — in  sounds  that  made 

The  impatient  soul  leap  upward  into  flight, 

The  skies  stoop  down  am?  yield  to  every  wish, 

While  earth,  embraced  by  heaven,  instinct  with  love, 

And  blessing,  had  forgot  all  fears  of  death  ! 

The  brightness  of  your  age,  in  every  change, 
Mocks  that  which  palsies  man.     Dim  centuries 
That  saw  your  fresh  beginnings  with  delight, 
Are  swallowed  in  the  ocean-flood  of  years, 
Or  crowd  with  ruin  the  gray  sands  of  Time, 
Who  still,  with  appetite  and  thirst  unslaked — 
Active  but  unappeased — voracious  still, 
Must  swallow  what  remains.    Sweet  images, 
Whose  memories  wake  our  song — whose  forms  abide— 
The  heart's  ideal  standards  of  delight- 
Are  gone  to  people  those  dim  realms  of  shade, 
Where  rules  the- Past— that  sovereign,  single-eyed, 
Whose  back  is  on  the  sun ! 


102  POEMS. 

Ah  !  when  all  these— 
The  joys  we  have  recorded,  and  the  forms 
Whose  very  names  were  hlessings — forms  of  youth, 
Of  childhood,  and  the  hours  we  know  not  twice, 
Which  won  us  first,  and  carried  us  away 
To  strange  conceits  of  coming  happiness, 
But  to  be  thought  on  as  delusions  all, 
Yet  such  delusions  as  we  still  must  love  ! — 
When  these  have  parted  from  us — when  the  sky 
Hath  lost  the  charm  of  its  ethereal  blue, 
•  And  the  nights  lose  their  freshness — and  the  trees 

No  longer  have  a  welcome  shade  for  love — 
•     And  the  moon  wanes  into  a  paler  bright, 
And  all  the  poetry  that  stirr'd  the  leaves, 
And  all  the  perfume  that  was  on  the  flow'rs — 
Music  upon  the  winds — wings  in  the  cloud — 
The  carpeted  vallies  wealth  of  green — the  dew 
That  morning  flings  on  tne  enamelPd  moss — 
The  hill-side,  the  acclivity,  the  grove — 
Sweeter  that  Solitude  is  sleeping  there  ! — 
Are  gone,  as  the  last  hope  of  misery : — 
When  the  last  dream  of  a  deluded  life 
Hath  ^eft  us  to  awaken — not  to  see 
The  golden  morning,  but  the  leaden  night, 
When  sight  itself  is  weariness,  and  hope 
No  longer  rifles  from  the  barren  path 
One  flow'r  of  promise ! — when  disease  is  nigh 


POEMS.  „  103 

And  every  bone  is  racking — and  the  thought       .  ; 
Is  of  dry,  nauseous,  ineffectual  drugs, 
Which  we  must  painfully  swallow — but  in  vain— 
And  not  a  hand  is  nigh  to  quench  the  thirst, 
With  one  poor  cup  of  water, — or  our  pray'r 
Is  answer'd  with  indifferent  mood,  that  shows 
The  moderate  service  irksome — when  the  eye 
Strains  for  the  closing  heavens,  and  the  fair  sky 
Which  it  is  losing, — and  dread  images, 
Meetly  successive,  of  the  sable  pall, 
The  melancholy  carriage,  and  the  clod, 
Make  us  to  shudder  with  a  stifling  fear ; — 
When  we  have  bade  adieu  to  earthly  things, 
Fought  through  that  long  last  struggle,  still  the  worat, 
Wrestling  with  self, — and  winning  that  best  boon, 
Of  resignation  to  the  sovereign  will, 
We  may  no  longer  baffle  or  delude, — 
And  offer'd  up  our  prayer  of  penitence, 
Doubtful  of  its  acceptance,  yet  prepared, 
As  well  as  our  condition  will  admit, 
For  the  last  change  in  an  unhappy  life  ! — 
Oh !  then,  methinks  'twould  still  rejoice  mine  eyes, 
Would  they  throw  wide  my  casement,  and  permit, 
A  last  fond  gaze  upon  the  placid  sky, 
And  all  the  heavenly  watchers  which  have  seen, 
My  fair  beginning,  and  my  rising  youth, 
And  my  tall  manhood.    Oh !  dear  friend  that  hears't 


104  POEMS. 

This  chaunt— thy  office  may  be  soon  to  ask, 
How  shall  I  soothe  this  suffering  which  I  see  7 — 
With  what  sweet  service  to  the  friend  I  love, 
But  have  not  power  to  save,  prepare  his  couch, 
And  robe  him  for  his  rest?    Think  of  this  song, 
And  of  thy  own  sweet  thoughts  and  sympathies. 
Give  him  to  see  the  blessed  skies — the  Night — 
Her  azure  garments  seeded  with  great  eyes. 
That  smile  on  him  with  love  ; — and,  at  the  hour. 
Which  brings  thee  to  thy  parting,  it  will  glad, 
Thy  heart  in  that  sad  struggle  to  behold 
Their  sweet  serene  of  eyes.     'Twill  bear  thee  back, 
With  all  the  current  of  thy  better  thoughts, 
To  the  pure  practice  of  thy  innocent  years. — 
Repentant,  then,  of  errors,  evil  deeds, 
Imaginings  of  darkness,  thou  wilt  weep 
Over  thy  recollections ;  and  thy  tears, 
The  purest  tribute  of  thy  contrite  heart, 
Will  be  as  a  sweet  prayer  sent  up  to  heaven ! 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  THERMOPYL-ffi. 

Stranger  !  thou  stand'st  upon  Thermopylae  ! 
The  pass  that  led  into  the  heart  of  Greece, 
But  gave  no  passage  save  through  greater  nearts: 
They  keep  it  still. — Their  graves  are  at  thy  feet. 


POEM*. 


EVENING  AT  SEA. 

DAY  sinks  in  rosy  vestments,  that,  afar, 

Spread  over  the  billows,  as  with  guardian  office, 

To  shelter  his  decline.    Gorgeous  in  gold, 

And  purple,  fall  the  curtains  of  the  west, 

In  the  same  gracious  duty;— his  reposs 

Screening  from  vulgar  gaze  of  those  who  lato 

Had  flourish'd  in  his  favor.    Now  they  fleet, 

Those  clouds  of  glorious  garniture  and  shade, 

Changing  their  apt  varieties  of  form 

No  less  than  hue  and  loveliness,  to  lines 

That  melt,  even  while  they  linger,  in  the  embrace 

Of  the  fast  rising  Night  j  who,  like  a  mother, 

Takes  all  within  her  fold.     A  little  while, 

And  darkness  sways  the  ocean  whose  great  waves 

Grow  sullen,  as  they  murmur  through  the  gloom, 

Resentful  of  its  shadows. — But  anon, 

Comes  forth  the  maiden  Moon, — her  sickle  bent 

For  service  in  these  fields ;  a  glorious  blade, 

Of  silver,  that  subdues  them  at  a  stroke^ 

Leaving  the  keen  reflection  of  its  edge 

On  every  heaving  hillock  as  she  goes  t 

How  rare  the  hush  that  follows )    Not  a  wave 

Lifts  its  rebellious  head  j  but,  lawn'd  in  light, 

Subdues  itself,  most  willing,  to  the  embrace 


106  POEMS. 

Of  that  perfecting  beauty  which  makes  all 
Her  tribute  objects  precious,  though  obscure ! 
How  sudden  sinks  the  wind,  that,  but  awhile, 
Took  a  capricious  play  upon  its  vans, 
And  shook  our  streamers  out.    The  heavenly  things 
Seem  brooding  o'er  our  path  ;  the  great  abyss, 
Of  deep  and  sky,  flush'd  with  intelligent  forms, 
The  herds  of  eyes,  the  numerous  flocking  stars, 
Gazing  in  wonder  on  the  serene  march. 


BALLAD. 

BY  the  brooklet,  grove  and  meadow, 

Where  together  once  we  stray'd, 
Do  I  wander,  fond  as  ever, 

Haunting  still  each  secret  shade ;   * 
And,  that  thus  content  I  wander, 

Where  such  precious  joys  were  mine, 
Do  I  know  that  thou  art  with  me, 

And  my  spirit  walks  with  thine. 

In  the  murmur  of  the  brooklet. 
Still,  thy  well-known  voice  I  hear, 

And  the  whisper  in  the  tree  top, 
Tells  me  that  thy  form  is  near ; 


POEMS. 


10T 


Thou  hast  left  me,  at  departing, 
All  that  earth  could  never  take, 

And,  still  comforted,  I  wander, 

Through  these  shadows  for  thy  sake. 

Were  I  guilty  of  a  passion, 

Which  thy  beauty  could  survive, 
Still  I  feel  thy  gentle  presence, 

Must  the  earthly  fancy  shrive  ; 
And,  discoursing  with  thy  spirit, 

Oh !  I  feel  that  earth  has  nought, 
To  compensate  the  forgetting, 

Of  the  sweetness  thou  hast  taught. 


THE  MINIATURE.      - 

THERE  needs  no  painter's  skill  to  trace 
The  lineaments  of  that  dear  face, 
Or  keep,  for  memory's  future  tears, 
.The  charms  that  fade  with  fading  ^ears  ; 
Such  token,  too,  as  this,  I  fain 
Would  have  thee  feel  as  worse  than  vain, 
Since  not  alone  were  these  the  charms, 
Dear  heart,  that  won  me  to  thy  arms. 


108  FOBMS. 

Think's t  thou  that  smile,  though  rich  it  be, 
That  eye  so  bright— those  tresaes  free-* 
This  little  dimple,  where  the  loves 
Sit  smiling  sly  iu  sunny  groves—* 
That  cheek  so  smooth,  that  neck  so  fair — 
That  nameless  grace  beyond  compare—* 
Think'st  thou  that  these,  alone,  may  bind, 
In  faith  so  fond,  so  wild  a  mind  ? 

As  soft  a  lip,  perchance,  as  this 
Had  blest  me  oft  with  Fanny's  kiss ; 
And  Rosa  has  an  eye  whose  glow 
Would  make  a  starlight  in  the  snow. 
Not  these  !  not  these  !  but  in  thy  breast 
The  lurking  love  that  mine  confessed  ; 
'Twas  not  alono  for  charms  in  thee, 
But  that  thy  heart  was  full  of  me  ! 

Take  back  these  lines,  whose  language  weak 
But  tells  that  painting  cannot  speak— 
That  while  it  makes  some  beauties  glow, 
But  mourna  for  those  it  cannot  show.— 
A  portrait  drawn  with  dearer  art, 
Lies  perfect,  sweet  one,  in  my  heart, 
And  truthful  still,  whenv'er  I  gaze, 
Thy  love,  as  well  as  look,  betrays. 


POEMS.  109 


THE  CAPTIVE. 

r. 
THE  Captive  crouch'd  in  his  dungeon, 

On  the  floor  the  sunbeam  lay ; — 
He  crept  the  length  of  his  fetter, 

But  the  sunbeam  flitted  away  ; 
"  Ah  !  thus,  hath  the  cruel  fortune, 

Still  mock'd  me,  "  the  Captive  said ; 
"  She  came  with  her  sunshine  smiling, 

But  ere  I  could  clasp  her,  fled, 

n. 

The  Captive  slept  in  his  dungeon, 

And  a  vision  of  visions  spell'd 
The  sense  of  his  sleeping  sorrow, 

The  fairest  he  ever  beheld  ; 
A  maid  at  the  door  stood  smiting, 

And  she  said — "  come  hither  to  me ; 
From  his  wrist  his  fetters  crumbled, 

And  his  feet  and  his  soul  were  free. 

in. 

. 

But  with  dawn  the  maiden  vanish'd, 
And  lo !  by  the  Captive,  stood 

The  form  of  the  savage  headsman, 
With  his  axe  still  dripping  blood ;— - 


110  POEMS. 

"  Ah !  now,  indeed,"  said  the  Captive, 
"  The  sense  of  the  dream  I  see  ; 

The  maid  was  the  angel  of  mercy, 
And  'tis  mercy  that  sets  me  free," 


THE  GRAPE-VINE  SWING. 

LITHE  and  long  as  the  serpent  train, 

Springing  and  clinging  from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  darting  upward,  now  down  again, 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  are  strange  to  s 
Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold, 

Never  the  cougar  a  wilder  spring, 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  boa's  fold, 

Spanning  the  beech  with  the  condor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foe  that  we  fear  to  seek — 

The  boy  leaps  wild  to  thy  rude  embrace ; 
Thy  bulging  arms  bear  as  soft  a  cheek 

As  ever  on  lover's  breast  found  place : 
On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold. 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade ; 
While  a  maidefi  sits  in  thy  drooping  fold, 

And  swings  and  sings  in  the  noonday  shade 


POEMS.  -  111 

Oh  !  giant  strange  of  our  southern  woods, 

I  dream  of  thee  still  in  the  well  known  spot, 
Though  our  vessel  strains  o'er  the  ocean  floods, 

And  the  northern  forest  beholds  thee  not ; 
I  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret, 

As  the  cordage  yields  to  my  playful  grasp — 
Dost  thou  spring  and  cling  in  our  woodlands  yet? 

Does  the  maiden  swing  in  thy  giant  clasp  ? 


ATTICA. 

METHINKS  that  now  we  breathe  a  purer  air, 

And  lovelier  looks  the  prospect.     The  blue  sky 
Might  well  persuade  us  of  a  happier  sphere 

Than  aught  our  northern  countries  may  supply. — 
Look  for  your  history  now  ! — Beneath  our  eye, 

Lies  Attica, — there,  bounded  by  the  sea, 
There,  by  Eubcea ; — yet,  how  boundless  she 

In  sole  dominion  ; — with  a  realm  outspread 
Wherever  Genius  breathes,  or  memory  broods 

O'er  the  past  works  of  Genius ! — In  our  woods 
We  felt  her  mighty  aspects,  which  still  shed 
An  atmosphere  of  empire  far  and  near ; — 
And,  though  overthrown  the  altars  of  her  God, 
From  the  vast  ruins  still,  he  sends  his  spells  abroad. 


112  POEMS. 


HEART  ESSENTIAL  TO  GENIUS, 

WE  are  not  always  equal  to  our  fate, 

Nor  true  to  our  conditions.    Doubt  and  fear 

Beset  the  bravest  in  their  high  career, 
At  moments,  when  the  soul,  no  more  elate 

With  expectation,  sinks  beneath  the  time. 

The  masters  have  their  weakness.     "I  would  climb,1' 

Said  Raleigh,  gazing  on  the  highest  hill — 
"  But  that  I  tremble  with  the  fear  to  fall !" 

Apt  was  the  answer  of  the  high-soul'd  Queen,— 
"  If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  never  climb  at  all !" 
The  heart !  if  that  be  sound,  confirms  the  rest, 

Crowns  genius  with  his  lion  will  and  mien, 
And,  from  the  conscious  virtue  in  the  breast, 

To  trembling  nature  gives  both  strength  and  will ! 


14  DAY  USE 

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C1RG  DEFT 


LD  21A-60w-2,'67 
(H241slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


